


(no) light

by hopsalong



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: But only a bit, F/F, but kept every other planet and then added more for good measure, force bonds because I can, ground war type violence in chapter 2, if you like the jedi as an institution this might not be the fic for you, non-consensual force-choking, please ignore that i stuck this in the kotor timeline i’m begging, sometimes...SITTING and talking, standing and talking, tfw you dislike tython enough to replace it with dalaran
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:06:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23638786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopsalong/pseuds/hopsalong
Summary: The year is 3,964 BBY. Arthas Menethil, once a valiant Knight of the Jedi Order, now leads the Empire’s efforts against peace in the galaxy. When he turns his attention to the neutral planet of Quel’Thalas, the Republic, to avoid being accused of making incursions into unaffiliated space, chooses to withhold aid.Disagreeing harshly with their decision, Sylvanas Windrunner resolves to help her people herself. And then everything gets worse.
Relationships: Jaina Proudmoore/Sylvanas Windrunner, Liadrin/Valeera Sanguinar
Comments: 58
Kudos: 102





	1. what stays

**Author's Note:**

> me, halfway through the next chapter of my WIP: hey no this is great but you know what would be fun? something entirely different :|  
> tfw when at 3am your jackass brain asks what if Revan, but Sylvanas?  
> This is maybe the most indulgent thing I’ve written in recent memory, but time is immaterial right now and apparently I got the writing bug, so.
> 
> note: these galactic dates advance backwards, not because i’m trying to write bad time travel, but because BBY = Before the Battle of Yavin.

_It is such a quiet thing, to fall. But far more terrible is to admit it._

_–Kreia_

3,969 BBY

_“I can use this for good,” he’d said, so youthful and excited back then, and Jaina believed him._

_Believed him over the coaxing whispers seeping from the Sith artifact like a slow poison. Believed him when his campaign against the Empire became more aggressive, methods worryingly vicious. Believed him because he said it was what was needed of him to beat them back, and he was still the boyishly charming man she loved._

_Until he isn't. Until he looks her in the eyes, unbothered by the impossible words spilling out of his mouth, and tells her he means to kill everyone in Stratholme. The Empire unleashed a plague there that was devastatingly virulent, impossible to cure. But not everyone is infected, and they came here to_ help _._

_Tides, didn’t they come here to help?_

_“I’m not a monster, Jaina. It has to be done. Stand aside.”_

_Arthas levels his weapon at her._ His eyes used to be blue _, she thinks, disbelief crawling from the back of her throat to freeze in her chest. Used to be._

 _“What are you_ doing? _” Her voice wavers, almost disappearing into the air filled with the cries of the sick and dying._

_“Making the right choice.”_

_He sounds so sure. That’s the worst part. Either she missed the turning point that made him into the man that would,_ could _do this, or he always was._

 _“No, no this isn’t right at all. Arthas, is this, did_ it _tell you to...”_

 _His eyes narrow. No one else knows he has it. If she had told the Masters instead of letting him_ learn _from it, learned_ with _him, could this have been avoided? Was she so consumed with the thrill of new knowledge she missed this kind of deterioration?_

 _“It gives me the power to fight the Empire, no more. Put aside your kind heart and_ think _. This is for the good of the galaxy.”_

 _No, there’s nothing good here. Her own quickened breaths reach her ears; she can’t let fear rule her but how can this be happening Tides he can’t, he can’t really mean to_ –

_She reaches for his warm familiar presence, and it’s like fingers slipping over cold glass. There’s nothing there for her to hold._

_Her hand drops to the hilt at her waist and knocks against it; she’s trembling too much to grasp it the way she needs to. None of his men will meet her beseeching gaze. Did they know? Did he plan for this before arriving?_

_“Arthas, don’t do this. There’s still time for a peaceful solution.”_

_“Oh, Jaina.” He smiles at her, cold and unfamiliar. Condescending. “Peace is a lie.”_

_Her world comes crashing down._

-

_3,964 BBY_

Sometimes it seems like less than five years ago that Arthas fractured her belief in her ideals.

It wasn’t only Stratholme, but what came after. The Council didn’t expel him from the Order for another four months, even after she fled back to Dalaran with the news. _Unfortunate but necessary_ was the ruling, 5-2. 

Jaina could have tried to explain, made the case that what she’d seen in him that day had no place here. But she was only a Knight back then, and with him still in the field she couldn’t show them. All she could say was _He killed them all_ , and _I didn’t stop him_.

And it wasn’t as though the Council considered her judgement sound. She and Arthas hadn’t been the best kept secret. She thinks it was only allowed because they were the Order’s golden children, back then. There are still whispers that he fell because of _her_ , even now, and they don’t even know that he told her about the holocron. That she let him keep it.

Jaina used to wonder if those whispers were true. Not anymore, though.

The reason, the _person_ that dragged her out of those depths strides from one end of the landing to the other, addressing the rapt crowd below.

Of _course_ Sylvanas chose the double-staircase outside the Council chamber to give her speech. She’s always had a flair for the dramatic, and she wants them to hear.

“Quel’Thalas was home to many of us!” Her voice echoes through the hall, clear and sure. “Home to countless others now! Not just soldiers, but farmers and craftsmen and _children_ , civilians!”

Jaina watches from further back, not needing to be in the thick of the others to catch the words. Sylvanas practiced this speech with her, after all. Instead she takes stock of the crowd.

None of the younger students, good. Sylvanas was adamant about not dragging children into what’s likely to be protracted guerrilla warfare, and so far none of them have successfully snuck into the packed hall.

No Masters either, and that shouldn’t surprise her but she’d thought surely _some_ would see the need, Alleria at least. Except – oh. She spots Liadrin hanging back as well, lingering near the entrance and listening carefully.

Though she’s refused the rank twice over for reasons no one’s privy to, she may as well be one. Her presence would be invaluable, if Sylvanas convinces her. They were friends long before Jaina knew either of them, after all. And judging by the lift of her ears as she watches Sylvanas wind down, it’s possible.

“The Republic is unwilling to devote forces to an unaffiliated planet, and perhaps I understand their reasoning. Perhaps I understand the need for caution, when the enemy we face is so powerful.”

Jaina nearly smiles. Sylvanas has spent hours in her room railing against that reasoning. The crowd begins to murmur among themselves, no doubt remembering how Arthas proved that power. Stratholme was only the first to fall.

“And yet our Council!” Her voice rises again, a shout directed to that very Council who no doubt wish they had earplugs. “Our Council refuses them aid as well, though his army marches on their capital as we speak.”

Her strides lengthen while frustration bleeds into her words, her gestures.

“We know well there are no Force-wielders among the populace – those of us who called it home _were_ those wielders! Our duty is to the defenseless, but they would permit Menethil to conquer Silvermoon unchallenged. Conquer a _planet_ unchallenged, and twist its people to his dark ends.” She stops in the middle of the landing, perfectly positioned, perfectly planned. “Knights of the Order, can you allow this?”

Her voice rings with conviction that they won’t. She isn’t disappointed; the cry that rises in the wake of her final words, the denial, is loud enough to make Jaina wish she had earplugs of her own. Except she wouldn’t have wanted to miss a moment of this, because she’s incredibly proud of the woman standing above them.

Proud and afraid for her, but there’s no talking her out of it. The elf began planning this the moment it became clear Arthas meant to move on Quel’Thalas, even before the Council decided not to intervene. As though she knew they wouldn’t.

It’s risky. Disobeying a direct order and taking Dalaran’s Jedi with her was such a long shot she was likely only allowed this speech because no one dreamed it would work. But it has, Jaina sees it in the way her fellows approach Sylvanas again and again. Shifting uncertainly, biting their lips...but saying yes. Many, _most_ , saying yes.

That’s it then. There’s no stopping this now. She stands straighter against the pang in her chest.

Hours later, she finds Sylvanas in her quarters. The elf is securing her boots, the rest of her armor already in place. The room is spotless, her packing long since completed. Most of her belongings are in her ship already.

She either never doubted she could convince enough of them, or she meant to go regardless. Knowing her, it’s a little of both.

“Jaina.” Sylvanas turns to offer her a smile, only a little wan. She looks mildly shocked, as if she still can’t quite believe she pulled it off. “Quite the success, don’t you think? On both counts – Alleria gave me an earful already.”

“The way you gave the Council one, you mean?” Jaina returns the smile, sitting on the edge of Sylvanas’ stripped bed and gesturing for the elf to join her. “You couldn’t resist aggravating them, could you?”

“Have I ever? They needed to hear it. If I managed to ruffle some feathers, so much the better.”

Her delivery is glib as ever, but there’s something more there. A tremor Jaina feels through their bond that conceals a deeper emotion. She strokes a gentle finger up the line of Sylvanas’ ear, questioning, but the elf flicks it away from the touch.

“What’s wrong? Aside from...” She shrugs with a self-deprecating twitch of her lips. “Well.”

“Silvermoon was _my city_.” Sylvanas moves back to look at Jaina more closely. “Where I grew up, with my sisters, before the Order...found us.”

 _Took us_ , she means. Not like Jaina, whose father offered her up the moment she displayed Force-sensitivity. But those are old wounds, and they have much newer ones to worry about.

“Yet even they won’t... Alleria will not entertain it. She won’t defy the others, and worse, she’s holding Vereesa back with her. All on the order of our leaders.” She nearly spits the word, contemptuous. “We could have made such a difference if we’d gone sooner. You know what an army led by Sith will do to ordinary people. None of them stand a chance without us. They would all have been _slaughtered_.”

She should remind Sylvanas to stay calm. Remind her of their most basic lesson, that _there is no emotion_. But there were emotions between them from the start, and it’s been a long time since that unsettled her.

“Sylvanas...” Jaina scoots closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. The armor doesn’t make it much of a pleasant experience, but she hardly minds. “You did what you could, you fought for this. You _are_ going to make a difference, when it still matters. I–”

She nearly airs her own fears, but it wouldn’t do any good now. Sylvanas picks up on them though, as always, and leans into her a little harder.

“You still don’t think I should go.”

“...No. And yes. I’m...apprehensive. But you’ll go anyway.”

“Yes. Jaina, can you see why?”

Sylvanas is desperate for her to understand, and she does. She does, it’s just...

“You aren’t wrong. I know, I _know_ you aren’t. But the Council won’t let you come back, if you leave. Maybe the rest, they can’t afford to exclude all of you, but...”

If Sylvanas is bothered by this, it doesn’t show.

“But you still won’t come with me?”

“I’m sorry.”

She is. Deeply. But she remembers the way Arthas stood, spine unbowed in the face of the utter devastation he caused. If she sees him again she’ll either break down or try to kill him. But not _just_ kill. Tear his eyes out, maybe. For making her have to listen to what he’d done. She’d fled on foot in the end, but the screams kept coming long after Stratholme was out of sight.

That isn’t a temptation she can risk, so. Now she has to watch Sylvanas go, alone.

The elf flashes a jaunty quirk of her lips, dismissing the apology; she knows why, of course. They haven’t hidden their thoughts from each other for a long time, now. And oh, they’ve argued over this. Long and sometimes too loud. But in the end, Sylvanas understands.

“I’ll see you again. Once we win, the Council will either welcome me back with open arms or I’ll buy a penthouse on Coruscant and convince you to file your visits as business expenses.”

That draws an unbidden laugh from her suddenly strained lungs.

“Please just be careful.” She lays a hand on the pauldron Sylvanas is so fond of securing to her robes, willing her not to brush this off. “Arthas is more dangerous than you think.”

“That’s precisely why I have to do this. He’ll find I’m dangerous as well.” Sylvanas cups her cheek, careful as always. “Wish me luck?”

Jaina kisses her, slow, trying to commit it to memory. The softness, the scent of mint and polish.

It’s all she can do not to beg Sylvanas to reconsider, again. Instead she conjures a shaky smile of her own before the elf slings her pack over her shoulder and walks away.

Three months later, Sylvanas’ forces are reported deceased. Along with the entire planet of Quel’Thalas. He had a superweapon, they all learned too late, and Silvermoon was its test run.

Days after that, the rumors begin to trickle back to Dalaran.

Jaina doesn’t break down when she first hears the report from where she’s hunched over in the archives, grasping wretchedly at her hair. Nor when she strides quickly from the room as everyone bursts into chatter at once. It isn’t until she’s safely inside her quarters that she sinks to the ground, clutching both white-knuckled hands to her chest.

Fallen. Sylvanas, _fallen_. And chasing Arthas across the galaxy with the remnants of her forces without regard for anyone unlucky enough to be in her way.

The irony drags heaving sobs from her, bitter laughter and tears mixed together. It happened again. It happened _again_ , and she wasn’t even there this time.

-

3,966 BBY

_The warm evening finds her in the usual room at the inn she so often visits for rendezvous just like this one, trying to explain to Valeera why they can’t do this again. It’s the best time to end it, with the brash elf about to finish her training for Republic Intelligence._

_A post Liadrin isn’t supposed to know about, but there are few secrets between them now. That’s part of the problem._

_Valeera could go anywhere in the galaxy when she’s done, and wherever that is should be away from her. The younger woman is, predictably, not making the discussion easy. And only mostly on purpose._

_“You’re telling me the Order really says_ sex _is_ forbidden? _” She laughs, long and loud._

 _Her long hair is down, tonight_ _– Liadrin’s hands ache to grip it, pull her closer. She wraps one around her drink instead._

 _“Not_ _–” She clears her throat. “No, physical relationships are allowed. Clearly. But it’s not... I_ like _you, Valeera.”_

_“I like you too,” she says too easily, politely ignoring the way the tips of Liadrin’s ears flush. “Really not seeing the problem.”_

_Liadrin eyes the tumbler of dark liquid resting on the table between them, and decides to refill her glass. To give herself time to respond, and because she could really use the drink. Thank the stars, Valeera decides to be patient just this once._

_By the second sip, she’s ready to try again._

_“It’s not that simple. The dark side...it’s not a conscious choice. It would take so little. Just one concession, perhaps. And I’ve made so many.”_

_Valeera blinks._

_“What, us? Having a good time isn’t evil, Liadrin.”_

_Liadrin shakes her head at that, but leaves it alone. If she’s too afraid to admit to_ herself _what her feelings are becoming, she certainly won’t be admitting them to Valeera._

_Affection. Fear. She knows what comes next._

_“Attachment_ leads _to evils. Things I don’t think myself capable of now, I might be later. Because I began walking down a path I couldn’t turn back from.”_

_“Are you really suggesting being attracted to me is going to make you some kind of, what? Criminal?”_

_She has to wonder why Valeera’s pushing back so hard; that’s exactly what she’s been trying to suggest for the better part of an hour._

_Because if someone tried to hurt Valeera, she thinks she might kill them. To protect her, of course. Always. But also out of anger. Would she make more choices like that? Yes. Maybe, yes. She could become someone terrible so easily._

_“Yes,” Liadrin says instead of any of that._

_Valeera stands, rounding the table to hover next to where she stays seated._

_“Just don’t do anything criminal, then. It’s not like I’m going to ask you to steal Whisperwind’s speeder to take it for a joyride. What exactly are you afraid of?”_

_By now Valeera’s refusal to show deference to members of the Council is almost expected, so she lets it go. As to what she’s afraid of...well. Too much. She finishes this drink as well, placing the glass back down with deceptively steady hands._

_“As if you’d need my help to sneak off with it. And...and Arthas Menethil was of our Order, and look what became of him.”_

_“You want to stop because of_ him? _” Valeera flicks an ear, no longer only playing at being indignant._

_Liadrin’s frustration rises to match, no matter that she knows she shouldn’t burn like this. No matter how fervently she tries to bury it._

_“I don’t_ want _to, Valeera. I’m saying that it’s necess_ _–”_

_Before she can finish, the younger woman’s deft fingers reach over to tangle in the front of her robes. Even that simple action makes her breath catch._

_“If you don’t want to, then shush.”_

_“I, Valeera I can’t_ _–”_

Can’t be around you, can’t control myself, can’t stop wanting you.

_Valeera softens just a little, when she reads the genuine fear there. She settles into Liadrin’s lap more to soothe than provoke. If she can see through her so easily, what else might she unearth?_

There is no passion, there is serenity _but oh she can’t be serene about this. Her hands, done being denied, grip Valeera to help keep them both balanced._

_“How about this?” Valeera murmurs against her parted lips. “If I see you doing anything Sith-y, I’ll set you straight. I won’t even bring the speeder up again, even though I kind of want it now. I’m a very good judge of character, you know.”_

_She shouldn’t want this. She can’t_ afford _to want this. But stars, she does._

_“I know,” she manages before Valeera’s mouth closes over hers._

-

When the Council makes the decision to remove Sylvanas from the Order _in absentia_ , Jaina argues. She makes no appointment, so when she walks into their chamber there are only four seated around the table to shoot her startled glances. Tyrande, Malfurion, Broll, and Turalyon.

From the opening exchange she knows they won’t listen, but she needs to try anyway. That’s all she can do. It’s a familiar song and dance, though with Arthas she’d been trying to remove him, not _keep_ him. But just like before, she doesn’t have a say in this. And just like before, she makes her case with as much patience and decorum as she can. At first.

Malfurion lets her finish, gazing serenely up at her from his seat. When it’s clear her words have run dry, he speaks first.

“We are pillars of _peace_ , Master Proudmoore.”

The title sounds like nothing from his mouth. Once, she would have been happy to hear it.

“That’s exactly what she’s fighting for. If she weren’t harassing Arthas at every turn, how many planets would we have lost? She fought him off at the Highlands, at Winterspring – saved them when the Republic wouldn’t.”

She knows she’s said too much, revealed that her own stake in this is far from detached, before the last of the words leave her mouth. Only Broll looks marginally sympathetic, but shakes his head like the rest.

“She was warned not to leave,” Tyrande counters, but gently. “To prevent the danger that she now represents. What she experienced at the final battle for Silvermoon was terrible indeed, but we cannot condone her actions.”

 _But you were so willing to keep Arthas_ , she thinks viciously.

“And when he turns Frostmourne on Dalaran? Will you fight him then, or remain sheltered here while we burn too?”

The Council share significant looks before Malfurion speaks again.

“You show much emotion. I would suggest mastering yourself, to remain a credit to your rank. I’m not without sympathy, Jaina, but it’s clear you need rest.”

She wonders how throwing Malfurion across the room would reflect on her rank. That much, at least, she keeps to herself, biting her cheek to keep the dip of her head respectful.

“Understood. Thank you for your time.”

-

3,968 BBY

_“Master Proudmoore.”_

_Jaina nods, but keeps her eyes on the research spread on the table before her. Whatever game Sylvanas has in mind, she doesn’t want to play it. They’ve never had occasion to speak, but she knows of her. Everyone knows her._

_The elf has always been cocky, enough that the Council will likely never raise her to Master. And she never seems to care about that, as if the position would be more inconvenience than honor. She’s exactly the kind of person Jaina least wants to deal with right now._

_“I was hoping we might talk,” Sylvanas continues, not sounding at all affronted by Jaina’s indifference._

_Of course. Another one, here to try to unsubtly root out her culpability. Remind her of her many faults, even here in the archives she’s come to think of as a sanctuary. She gives her notes a last reluctant glance._

_“What about?” she asks anyway. Might as well let the scene play out._

_Sylvanas slides into a seat a respectable distance from her own, swinging one leg over a knee in an infuriatingly graceful gesture._

_“Oh, anything. Your favorite foods, perhaps? I’m quite fond of sweeter things, myself.”_

_“If you want to waste time so badly, I would suggest meditating,” Jaina snaps._

_Sylvanas starts; Jaina does too. She’s never retaliated before, finding it easier to let the inferences wash over her. There’s a beat, a thump of a heart between them, then the elf smirks._

_“You’re a rather poor Jedi.”_

_That’s the last straw. Such a blunt assessment after six_ months _of the others only implying it is like spluttering from the cold slap of a wave she didn’t see coming._

 _“Fine, yes. It’s nothing everyone else hasn’t been dancing around. The Council promoted me out of pity, Stratholme was my fault,_ Arthas _was my fault! Does that satisfy you?”_

 _Sylvanas’ ears shift forward the slightest bit. Is she..._ impressed _?_

 _“It was meant as a compliment. And the Council would be fools to pity you, as you’re one of the most powerful people here.” Her body follows, leaning across the table towards Jaina. “By the sun, why would Menethil be_ your _fault?”_

Because I knew he had it and I–

 _Shockingly_ _, Jaina_ feels _the elf’s curiosity like a tentative fluttering around her. She glares at Sylvanas, ready to rail against her for the invasion, but she looks just as surprised._

 _If she didn’t pry on purpose, how_ _– ?_

_“Knew he had what?” Sylvanas asks, quieter now. Her ears swivel back harshly._

_She already knows, somehow plucked the answer from her; Jaina’s confident enough in her own power she knows Sylvanas could never delve like that without her knowledge, and yet. She pins the elf with an unimpressed look._

_“Why bother asking? Will you denounce me for that too?”_

_It’s Jaina’s turn to have knowledge of her conversation partner she shouldn’t. Confusion and...hurt? Bright, a splash of uncertain color there and gone._

_“I don’t recall denouncing you at all, Master Proudmoore.”_

_She...she really hasn’t, has she. Only sat here and let Jaina criticize herself while lashing out at her. And she’s still talking._

_“And I can’t speak to Stratholme, but if that...” Sylvanas shivers, as if fighting off a chill. “If the two of you truly discovered such a thing, and you dared to divine its secrets as well, I should say Menethil was in no way your fault.”_

_“How...” Jaina’s voice is very small. Not as small as that appalling day in the village, but close. “How can you possibly say that?”_

_“Because you’re here in Dalaran and he is not. Whatever strength of character you possess, he lacks. Arthas Menethil is entirely his own failing.”_

_The words rock her, shaking loose the foundation she’s built up day by guilty day. Sylvanas must see_ – sense? – _how overwhelmed she is, because she shifts back into her starting posture and spares Jaina the full intensity of her regard._

_“I truly did not approach to antagonize you. I’m frequently told I can be, hm, brash.”_

_Brash, but at least self-aware. And she can_ feel _how much she means it, as if Sylvanas is a language she could learn fluently given enough time. She leans forward herself, research entirely forgotten._

 _“Why_ did _you?”_

_“In truth? I’d hoped to make you smile. That seems to have, ah...backfired rather spectacularly.” Her ears flick, embarrassed._

Cute _, Jaina thinks, startling herself. She can tell the exact second Sylvanas hears it, because those ears lift again. Whatever’s happening here, she...might not mind it. Something about Sylvanas pushes her to make an effort. Better this than the year spent trying to shut every wayward feeling down._

_“No, I’m not sure it has. You’re welcome to try again tomorrow, if you’d like. It might help if you called me Jaina.”_

_This time, she can’t tell which of them the frisson of excitement is from._

-

Jaina sends holocalls every day. Every day, they go unanswered. She searches for Sylvanas through the Force, again and again. Sylvanas answers only once, not long after the Republic refuses her repeated requests to help her follow Arthas further into neutral space.

Probably, she hoped the knowledge that he has a ship capable of disintegrating planets would be enough to sway them. Instead, they’re doubling down on protecting their own.

The elf is too emotional for words, but Jaina feels everything. _Confusion sorrow turmoil pain betrayal betrayal BETRAYAL_ and then nothing. As if Sylvanas severed their connection before her spiraling loss of control could sweep Jaina into the maelstrom.

It doesn’t surprise her that Sylvanas keeps after Arthas all the same. By now everyone knows there’s a great nothing, a wound filled with forever-dying screams where Quel’Thalas once was. Yet despite her depleted numbers, she pushes him back. Again and again, in and out of Republic space.

But there have been incidents. A village burning on one front, skyscrapers toppling on the next. Everywhere Sylvanas pursues him, she leaves rubble in her wake. Civilian casualties have been low, but.

But that there have been any at _all_ is nearly incomprehensible to her – Sylvanas sometimes acts without consideration but never, _never_ with open disregard for lives. Jaina hasn’t been naive enough to trust without question in years, but it's still a shock.

The Republic is quicker to disown Sylvanas than the Council, after that. Especially when people start to join her in droves. Mercenaries she must be hiring herself, and ordinary people willing to become soldiers. They’re as eager to see Arthas defeated as she is, and just as willing to discard consequence.

A month after her world breaks down again she’s sequestered in her room with the remaining Windrunners, carrying on a hushed conversation about what, if anything, can be done.

The Council’s vote to disavow Sylvanas was unanimous, but Alleria’s here anyway. It gives Jaina hope they can find a solution, even though the conversation circles and circles.

“She’s a threat.” Alleria struggles to keep her voice stern, though it clearly pains her to say it. “Our intel confirms her corruption is visible, Vereesa. How long until she turns on us all, not just him?”

 _Arthas’ eyes are molten suns and his blade sizzles the same red as the blood he’s about to spill and_ –

Jaina grits her teeth around the tremor that wants to shake free.

“She wouldn’t,” Vereesa denies, adamant in spite of the tears trailing down her face. “I’ll go and...and explain. She’ll come back, you’ll see.”

“The Order would rather pretend she doesn’t exist. They’ve washed their hands of her. What would you bring her back to?”

“To us! To our _family_. Don’t you want that?”

“She’s treating people like collateral damage.” Alleria covers her eyes with one hand, as if that could soften the blow her own words deal her. “How could I want to see that person?”

“We should have been there!” Vereesa cries. “She needed us there and I, we...”

Alleria’s jaw clenches, but she keeps her response locked away behind it. Jaina looks away, because that doesn’t just apply to the sisters. If she could go back she would have risked the temptation, if only to keep Sylvanas from succumbing to it.

Maybe something in her _is_ poison, if the ones she loves are destined to become...this.

In the end, Vereesa wins their argument. The sisters arrange a meeting on Republic territory while Jaina sits and waits and agonizes.

It went wrong from the start, she learns later. With their knowledge of the overture, the Republic sent their own operatives as a precaution. One of them tried to snipe Sylvanas in the middle of the meeting.

That operative, and the rest of the Republic's people, come back in body bags. Vereesa returns with fresh tears sparkling on her lashes and burns on the robes she hasn’t bothered to change out of, Alleria’s arm likely all that’s holding her up.

The official response is that the assassination attempt was unsanctioned. Jaina wonders.

 _We didn’t know. Please believe me_.

She projects it with all the strength she has. And still, no response.

 _Please_.


	2. what fades away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened before.  
> Or, Sylvanas makes a gamble she thought she was prepared to lose, but not like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who reviewed or left a kudos, it’s good to know I’m not just writing this fever-dream AU for me. And! Shoutout to the people with Star Wars-related usernames, because my shock was REAL and those were some 10/10 choices.
> 
> Times I wrote Vereesa instead of Valeera in...interesting places last chapter: 2
> 
> Times I definitely missed something in this chapter because I sped through editing: a lot, probably. I’ll go back through it later, but right now I just want this posted because it keeps growing send help
> 
> content warning: arthas. also blood and bodies, but mostly arthas.

Three weeks in, it’s going better than Sylvanas might have expected.

The local military is nothing to sneeze at, and with her knights on the field to counter Menethil’s wretched army they’ve done more than just hold out. He didn’t expect this kind of resistance, not from ordinary soldiers. What a mistake on his part not to expect her.

Still, as much as she’s managed to deter him, her concern is in turning Silvermoon into the kind of city that can defend against this kind of prolonged assault. With time it could be a veritable bastion, instead of just decently fortified. Time, and cursed resources.

Sylvanas excels at leading an army. But the other aspects, well...

“Who knew a military campaign would require so much busywork?”

She runs a hand through hair that hasn’t been perfect since they landed, wincing when the buckles of her vambrace catch. Liadrin sends her a rare smirk, swiping methodically at the screen she’s clearly still unused to holding with armored hands; the only concession she's made to Sylvanas' directive that they dress defensively.

“I did, of course. That’s why I volunteered – I suspected the bureaucracy might be a hurdle for you.”

“Whatever would I do without you?” It’s sarcastic, but she means it. Most of the others are young, untried. Her old friend is precisely the pillar she needs; she may be the only one who understands how bad this might get.

“Luckily for you, I don’t intend to let you find out.” Liadrin ticks another item off the manifest, frowning lightly in concentration.

Around them, Dalaran’s former Jedi mix with the native army. They’re carrying supplies, patrolling, _attempting_ to help cook...and adding yet more crates to the growing stack next to Liadrin, who periodically stares at the pile before shaking her head and returning to work.

They’re handling jobs they never expected, but they’re doing so well, all of them. This is what the Order should have been, rather than the stuffed shirts sitting pretty on Dalaran.

Well. _One_ of their number isn’t any kind of shirt, but certainly does sit prettily. When this ugly business is concluded, seeing Jaina again will be more than welcome. Sylvanas misses every part of her already, from her stubborn refusal to keep normal hours to the way her smiles are so genuine now compared to after...him.

Until that day comes, she’ll keep training her people. They’re already becoming a formidable force, better organized by the day, but she’ll make them better still.

She leaves Liadrin by the supplies with a two-fingered salute the older woman almost rolls her eyes at before remembering her manners.

So close, this time. One of these days Sylvanas will get her to act as carefree as when they were initiates. One day, but not for a while yet.

Her feet are sore, voice hoarse from giving dozens of orders to as many people in the last day alone, but it’s good to be back in the open fields and lush forests of her planet. She hadn’t realized how much Dalaran had begun to stifle.

-

Liadrin shouldn’t answer, but the number calling is anonymous, so. Either someone’s playing a practical joke at the worst possible time, Republic Intelligence is making a personal call, or...

The thrill that runs along her spine at the unspoken possibility is as improper as it is inevitable.

“Speaking.”

“So tense,” Valeera purrs. “Miss me?”

Liadrin shivers; the younger woman doesn’t need to know how strongly all of her reacts to the overture, insincere as it is. It’s been a long campaign already, and they’ve barely begun.

If there’s a saving grace, it’s that Sylvanas was correct. They are absolutely needed here.

“I would ask how you got this number if I weren’t certain I didn’t want to know.”

“No? I can regale you with something else instead. Maybe what I’m wearing?”

Liadrin can’t help the bark of laughter that follows. If it’s a touch delirious, well. It’s been weeks since she heard Valeera’s voice, and to have something so pleasant in the midst of all this has her alarmingly close to unmoored.

“On an unsecured channel? Not even you would be so brazen.”

“Try me,” Valeera simpers before laughing herself. “But no, you’re right. Just wanted to say good luck, since I missed you leaving in the dead of night all dramatic-like.”

“Valeera, we left in the middle of the afternoon.”

“Don’t ruin my fun.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. But after all this time?”

“Well now I’m starting to think you _didn’t_ miss me.” She sighs, very affectedly put out. “I’ll have you know it took me a month to get this number _and_ keep it a secret from the brass. You should be proud of me.”

If Valeera were here, Liadrin would indulge her by mouthing a line up one delicate ear until that pout turned into a moan; would let her play her games, because she can’t help giving the spy what she wants either way.

Since that’s impossible, she just lets her smile shine through in her reply.

“Consider me honored, then.”

And just like that, Valeera flips back to playful.

“So...what are _you_ wearing?”

It’s ridiculous enough she has to laugh again. It’s a relief she hasn’t forgotten how.

-

Sylvanas is on her knees, bleeding from a dozen cuts, shaking her and yelling something she can’t hear over the whistle cutting through the forest and her ears both. The whistle from the–!

Liadrin wrenches away from the hands trying to draw her up, scrambling backwards by pawing at an awkward angle through handfuls of dirt and leaves. Tight pain throbs in her chest but she can’t make herself breathe in more than little hitching gasps.

The mortar. There was a–

“ _Liadrin!_ ”

Her name, she catches over the shrill whine. Is that coming from her own throat or the soldiers around her or are there more explosives about to rain down, the shells she hadn’t sensed – she’d thrown up a barrier but it wasn’t large enough for everyone, she’s a _healer_ –

“Liadrin, this isn’t done! I need you on your feet!”

If she could speak, she might ask how she could possibly stand when her legs are sprawled four feet from the rest of her, half-concealed by the acrid smoke in the air. But...oh, those aren’t _hers_. She doesn’t wear armor.

Liadrin heaves, half-mad with a terror she didn’t know she could feel. She can’t heal that. She can’t heal half a person, what is she meant to do here if–

“ _Captain!_ ” Sylvanas shouts, looking more than half-mad herself. “I have to see to my own company, get up _now_ or your men are dead!”

That gets her moving, lurching forward with her palms crushed into the blood-damp earth until they can support her weight enough to push her upwards.

Later, she’ll remember that Sylvanas spends a handful of precious seconds more next to her. Takes time she doesn’t have to wait until Liadrin swallows and nods.

“I’ll get them up.”

The other elf returns the nod and vanishes into the burning trees; Liadrin starts to see to the rest of her soldiers. Staggering, the weight of her robes threatening to drop her back to the ground, but moving. Doing her job.

It’s not the bodies that haunt her the most, later. It’s the living frozen in panic that she has to abandon to save those she still can, when trying to drag them proves ineffectual.

By the time the day is over her hands are stained so thoroughly she can hardly remember a time they were clean.

-

Sylvanas casts a weary eye on the bleeping console in the corner of her tent. It’s the fourth call this morning, and only three people have this number. Two of whom actually use it – Alleria is still punishing her for daring to possess a spine, even two months on.

She doesn’t want Jaina to see her like this, but she promised she would answer whenever she could. And she is, technically, _capable_. Just unwilling. She doesn’t want to worry the human, and she’s tired all the way to her marrow.

It’s been at least forty hours since she last slept. Yesterday was a disaster, evidence that as well as her soldiers do in a frontal assault, or dodging amongst trees, they aren’t at all prepared for artillery.

But she didn’t know Menethil _had_ any. He must have mercenaries here, smugglers, a supplier; she only has Quel’Thalas’ own standing army.

They’re grateful enough for Sylvanas bolstering their own forces that they’ve been nothing but helpful, providing food and shelter while she coordinates their efforts. But those are next to useless compared to what she _needs_.

If she had the Republic’s support. If she had a network on the ground, who might have warned her Menethil had access to that kind of ordnance...! And she’s to blame as well. For not even _considering_ how valuable spies might be.

What a failing. One they’re all paying for now.

The console goes dark, then resumes shrilling. Jaina must be truly concerned, but why would – ah. They’d arranged to call yesterday, before...before.

Sylvanas slams a fist against her tent pole so hard it splinters, ignoring the flare of pain. Then, hand throbbing, she takes a breath that does nothing to calm her frayed nerves before answering.

“Jaina. My apologies, it’s been a busy day.”

Her first proper look at the hologram runs a grey flash of tired guilt through her. Jaina looks as though she spent all night in the archives again, as she has too often since her departure.

The human doesn’t like admitting to that, but Sylvanas is at least still on speaking terms with _one_ of her sisters. Vereesa likely only tattles because she hopes she’ll get Jaina to stop.

Instead of asking why she waited all night to answer, Jaina gasps. The static of the sound over the poor connection makes her ears shiver, quivering with the effort to prevent them from flying towards the safety of the hood hanging around her neck.

“You’re hurt!”

For a moment she can only stare, caught wrong-footed. Then it comes to her – the fool who tried to shoot her just shy of point-blank, as if she hadn’t just cleaved three of his fellows almost in half, two of them near simultaneously. It’s a trivial graze on her cheek, nothing like the wounds from the shrapnel concealed beneath her armor, but Jaina stares like it’s a missing limb.

“It’s nothing, a scratch. Don’t let me bore you with my clumsy escapades. How is” – _the useless blighted Council and their servile cult of_ – “your research coming along?”

“You’re sure?”

If there’s a silver lining to the distance between them, it’s that Jaina can’t sense her darker thoughts. For the first time since they met, her mask is as good as she can fashion it to be. And it is _very_ good.

When Sylvanas nods as smoothly as she ever has, Jaina hesitantly launches into a tale of contacting some professor or other and agreeing to exchange notes. Sylvanas nods in the right places, makes little interested hums here and there.

Her small smile is genuine enough; seeing Jaina happy has always made her the same.

Still, the whole time she wonders. What might a mind like Jaina’s have been able to contribute here, if she had joined her instead of hanging back? The question runs through her mind like a rat, gnawing as it goes.

“–said he might be able to fast-track getting me access to Manaan, he’s even on good terms with the Selkath, and of course you know they favor neutrality but...I...” Jaina trails off, worrying at her lip. “Sylvanas?”

“Hm?”

“ _Are_ you alright? You’re so still.”

Another mistake. She forgot to _move_ instead of simply listen. She stretches exaggeratedly, with the casual ease expected of her, to prove just how healthy she is. Under her armor, her muscles scream.

“Perfectly hale, as you see. Simply tired.” Then, both to deflect and because she knows Jaina’s afraid of aggravating her by asking every time, “And no, I’ve yet to face him in person. When I do, you will be the second to know.”

“Second?”

“I’d call Alleria first, of course. I will _relish_ the” – _opportunity to tear Menethil’s cowardly head from his shoulders when he finally reveals himself_ – “I Told You So. But I need to take my leave now, I’m afraid. The paperwork has been nightmarish.”

Paperwork like writing her condolences to all of those closest to the ones killed under her command. Starting and deleting and starting again, _ad nauseam_.

Jaina smiles, just a little.

“I look forward to visiting you on Coruscant,” she says. It’s the closest she can get to _I love you_ , since none of her damn lines are secure and they hardly need to _both_ be estranged from the Order.

“And I to receiving you,” Sylvanas answers, and signs off before she caves to her own increasingly desperate calculations and begs Jaina to join her here.

She knows why Jaina refused; they’ve spoken about it at length. But Sylvanas _needs_ her here. Her arsenal can’t hope to match his, not as they are. Yesterday carved that lesson into her, and she takes everything she learns to heart.

The human’s fear of _hurting_ Menethil feels trivial now. Whatever pain Jaina could inflict would be nothing compared to the damage he’s already done, and it would be over too soon, but over all the same.

The things they could have _accomplished_ were she here, another pillar on the field – except. This is _Jaina_ , not a weapon she can point at Menethil.

Sylvanas reminds herself that Jaina has better reason than most to fear the dark side, and shouldn’t have to endure months of pulling herself back from the brink.

And – that her soldiers shouldn’t be blamed for their own inexperience; much as she doesn’t blame Liadrin for freezing, because she’d gotten back up when it mattered. So many of them couldn’t do the same.

The Order’s failure to train them properly is her obligation to remedy. And she _will_ , she only needs to temper her army faster. She wasn’t sure at first, but day by day she comes closer to accepting an unavoidable truth: none of them can afford to draw this out.

-

Valeera calls well before the sun rises on Silvermoon. It’s already morning where she is, but no light reaches her in the windowless room. She’s been awake for hours, curled up in a frankly lousy bed in a safehouse she really needs to complain to Lor’themar about, surrounded by datapads.

Information is at a premium right now, what with all eyes on Quel’Thalas. Sleeping only means she has to catch up on old intel.

It’s probably not nice to call so late, but knowing Liadrin she isn’t sleeping either. Also, niceties are generally a waste of time. _Also_...it’s possible she’s annoyed that she doesn’t have such easy access to Liadrin right now.

Valeera doesn’t call any one place home, and she can’t exactly carry on their tryst at the Jedi’s rooms in Dalaran. It’s one of very few things Valeera _hasn’t_ been able to get her to budge on. But when she wanted Liadrin, all she had to do was send her a message and a planet and the woman would come.

Now she’s left wanting, in a way that’s more than just the frustration of not being able to have Liadrin’s hands on her. She doesn’t like it.

Liadrin picks up on the first ring.

“What’s cookin’ good lookin’?”

The older woman seems to enjoy Valeera’s game of increasingly awful lines, even if she’s scraping the bottom of the barrel these days.

Liadrin doesn’t laugh now, though. Instead she asks, nearly inflectionless, “How do you organize an intelligence network?”

Well. This won't be as exciting as she was expecting, but she’d listen to Liadrin read Huttese, so.

“Good morning to you too. The short answer, or are you writing a report?”

“Good morning,” Liadrin replies, something softer warming the words. Because of course now she feels guilty that she didn’t lead with that. Even though Valeera called _her_ in the middle of the night. Even though she doesn’t even know what planet Valeera's on. “And no, I’m trying to do exactly that. We need one, ah, very badly, and Silvermoon’s own is...lacking.”

Awful, she means. _Very badly_ , and Valeera doesn’t know why yet? This lack of intel is _exactly_ why her hours are getting longer and longer.

“Something happen?”

“The report will cross your desk soon enough, I’m sure. Your people can be very efficient. Do you have the time?”

That’s maybe the most polite brush-off she’s ever received, so she lets it slide. Also, it’s nice to know Liadrin clearly couldn’t care less about Republic Intelligence monitoring Sylvanas’ movements.

“For you, gorgeous? Absolutely. So, what kind of reserves are you working with...?”

Their talk lasts for hours Valeera doesn’t have, but there’s something about the way Liadrin asks her questions – and they’re good ones, smart, but – that puts her on edge.

Like _Should they consider themselves disposable or not?_ And _How are operations affected if the majority of a cell is killed?_

She needs to know what happened on Quel’Thalas. It was clearly big, at least enough to cut some of the softness from the older woman and leave a weary edge in its place. But in spite of that, or really _because_ of it, maybe she wants to keep talking to Liadrin a little while longer.

And after, she’ll put in a word to send more people to Silvermoon.

-

“Liadrin, I need this from you.”

Her captain stays silent, but at least she’s still looking Sylvanas in the eyes. She’s never been the type to look away, and Sylvanas has always respected that. But that will make this conversation harder, and she _needs_ Liadrin to obey her in this.

Yet from the way her arms are crossed as she frowns back at Sylvanas in the command tent, it isn’t likely she will. She’s replaced her robes with gleaming armor, making her already solid frame even sturdier, but the shadows under her eyes speak volumes.

“I treated our people long into the night,” Liadrin says after too long a pause. “You’re well aware who I was and was not able to save.”

“Your point?” It wasn’t a jab, at her core she knows that, but she can’t help the curl of her lip that reveals a hint of fangs.

“My point is that I know, better than even you, what artillery will do, and you’re asking me to acquire it for you despite that.”

Sylvanas tosses her head, the implied refusal fueling her roiling unease until it boils over.

“I know more than you think. _I_ wasn’t the one who reacted like a frightened ash-rabbit, or did you think laying frozen on the ground was a winning strategy?” Liadrin snarls back at that, and it’s...gratifying. “Need I make it an order?

“Will you?”

They’re such simple words but she can’t help but react to the challenge in them, pushing into the older woman’s space.

Sylvanas is fully prepared to issue that order in whatever way she needs to until her captain has no choice but to bend, but glaring up at her from so close she sees with a slow creep of dismay that Liadrin’s eyes are...different. It’s subtle, still early, but something about their gold shine feels colder.

They’re closer to running out of time than she thought; it’s so apparent now, if even Liadrin... She swallows the easy agitation, taking a step back with ash in her throat.

“I would prefer not to. And I apologize, my words were ill-considered.” It isn’t often she cares to do this with others, but she sends a contrite wisp of thought to the other woman. “I won’t deny this is hard, Liadrin, but we can’t afford to be _civilized_ about countering Menethil. Better his soldiers than ours, again.”

Liadrin doesn’t acknowledge the apology, but she’s polite enough not to slap it away either.

“I’m not just arguing for my sake. Our people aren’t prepared for this. All this fighting already has them unsettled. I’ve, noticed...”

“Noticed?” Sylvanas cocks an ear in false curiosity. She has more than an inkling of what the other woman is about to say, but she wants to know her thoughts.

“Changes. In the skirmish yesterday, Anya gutted a woman when she had the opening that would have let her end it quickly instead. The others fight more recklessly now, too. As if they’re feeding off each other. If we escalate, I worry...” She’s still looking at Sylvanas, but her disquiet seems directed inward. “That we’ll lose them to more than Arthas.”

“And yourself?”

Liadrin’s shoulders jump, but she doesn’t refute it. At least she’s not in denial. She can still help Sylvanas manage the others, until it’s done.

“You aren’t mistaken,” Sylvanas admits. “It’s one more reason _why_ we need a rapid finish, not a conflict drawn out by unwillingness to dirty our hands. Would you not prefer them unsettled to dead?”

“You look pale,” Liadrin observes, too astute.

Sylvanas rolls her shoulders dismissively, but she knows. Oh, she knows.

“Doubtless the chill. Dalaran made us too soft. Now – can you deliver me what I need or not?”

Liadrin does look away now, head bowed. Something cracks in their rapport, deep under the surface but a split in the foundation all the same. Damn this war, and damn Menethil.

“Yes, general.”

-

There’s a ship over Silvermoon. So large it blots out the sun, an ugly, spiked thing. It isn’t firing on them yet, content to loom in the sky like a bad omen.

Little time remains before they split their forces – a strike team for that monstrosity, the majority on the ground to defend the city if this proves to be a diversion.

Liadrin should be doing any number of things. Triple-checking the fastenings of her armor, for one, or going through the drills she performs for hours a day now if time allows. But by now she’s more than familiar with what a scrambled number means, so when her communicator rings, she answers.

“Valeera. It’s not a good time.”

“There’s a lot of that going around. Our agents on Quel’Thalas went dark. Anything you want to share?” It’s strained, cheer layered thinly over something else.

Dark...? If the people the Republic placed here are dead...

“Sylvanas wouldn’t–” she begins, but what _if_ – no. No, there wouldn't be any value in getting rid of them.

“I wasn’t going to accuse _you_ , but now you’ve got me wondering.”

“ _Do not_ ,” she whispers, barely managing to keep it from roughening into a hiss, “joke about that. Please.”

“...Okay. Okay, sorry. But you’re literally the only person planet-side picking up right now, so if there’s anything out of the ordinary I would appreciate a heads up.”

“Your agent now, am I?” She laughs for the first time in weeks, no longer caring what Valeera might pick up from the sound. “Yes, I would think the Star Destroyer above the city is abnormal.”

“The what!? Arthas doesn’t have one, that’s...”

Valeera’s an excellent liar, except with her; she really doesn’t know. Whatever that ship is – and is it truly a Destroyer when even miles away it looks _warped_ – it’s a secret from the Republic too. That’s a relief; she would hate to be toyed with at what might be the last.

“I’ll remind you Silvermoon still lacks secure lines, so I...” She hesitates. “I can't tell you much, but if I should...”

It wouldn’t be fair to say what she wants to. Something else though, something lighter that still lets Valeera know how much she’s valued, cared for...that would be alright, wouldn’t it? If this is the only chance she has, can’t she be a little selfish, one last time?

“If something should occur to prevent my return, I–”

“Liadrin, stop–”

“I’ve always thought–”

“ _No_ ,” Valeera snaps. “No, we’re not doing this.”

She says it so quickly. _Angrily_.

A laugh, another deflection – those, Liadrin could have handled. This, she has to struggle not to gasp over. She knew, of course she did. That her feelings wouldn’t be reciprocated even if she were allowed to acknowledge them.

But she didn’t expect _anything_ beyond the surface to be shut down so completely, and that...the way she feels about that is not something she can dwell on.

“I understand. I won’t take up more of your time.”

“Liadrin wait, I–”

She hangs up first, then drops her head into her hands.

-

The fight in and around Silvermoon rages below. Menethil sent his _entire army_. The size of it has Sylvanas staggered, even now, miles above it. He’s no longer feeling them out, testing their defenses – he’s either desperate or he believes he can annihilate them here.

She fears she knows which. And Silvermoon’s civilians have no place to evacuate to. It _was_ the place to evacuate to.

There’s something wrong with this ship. She felt it before they landed, exchanging an uneasy look with Liadrin, and it’s worse on board. Something hidden in the wires, the walls. Something with a voice whose whispered words she can almost make out.

His vessel, however, is not her immediate concern. No, that honor belongs to _him_.

There are no lines drawn in this fight. It’s disordered, a mad scramble from the moment her strike team landed. The corridors were teeming with his soldiers, fortifications well prepared. But she had no _choice_ but to spring the obvious trap, with his twisted ship holding her city hostage.

It takes far too long to cut her way to the bridge where he waits, silhouetted against the broad window with her planet as the backdrop. And there are so few of her own team left. Thirty – no.

Kalira goes down under a hail of blaster fire and Sylvanas amends her count, grinding teeth that ache with the force of her clenched jaw. _Twenty-nine_.

She spins around a Sith idiotic enough to charge her, cutting her down at the knees with one end of her blade and removing her head with the other before moving on to the next. And the next. Menethil has too _many_ ; he means to overwhelm her here, letting her struggle to reach him while he watches.

She needs to cut off the head, now.

“ _Captain!_ ” she shouts, grabbing Liadrin’s attention over the din with a force like a hand coiled around her from the inside, wrenching her head to what Sylvanas wants her to see. It’s a brute force method but she _won’t_ lose her chance at Menethil now, not when the cause of all this is close enough she can picture his blood on her teeth.

Liadrin swings around, red flowing from her hairline, shoving Sylvanas’ power away from her with a savagery bordering on feral. She sees what Sylvanas wants though, the wall of soldiers between them and Menethil, and barely falters before ripping the opposing end of the lower bridge apart with one rigid hand.

There’s a scream of twisting metal, a shriek that drives the agitation in her veins, and then the way in front of her lies clear but not for long and so she runs – over the bodies buried in sheet metal, the crushed limbs.

He has to die _now_ or they fall, and her planet with them.

" _Menethil!_ "

Sylvanas howls, leaping onto the dais where he waits. It's too aggressive, amateurish, but instead of batting her off the edge he lets her complete her swing.

From the moment their blades meet, sick red to her own purple, she knows she’s outmatched. He was strong on Dalaran, but not like this. A far greater power than she could have imagined he possessed crawls under his skin, escaping in waves that chill her through to her heart.

If he had fought alongside his soldiers from the beginning–

He grins – _grins!_ – at her before battering at her guard with no finesse, only raw strength. Proving he doesn’t need technique to best her if he can simply bludgeon her into the ground.

“I hoped you would chase me,” he taunts, still smiling, not out of breath at all. “Tell me, how do you think this will end?”

Already her arms creak under the blows, her knees bending under the sheer force. She’s forced to dance around him to avoid buckling, and he won’t even do her the courtesy of fighting like he means it. It’s maddening but she keeps moving, her double-bladed saber a blur around his single.

A cry comes from the mangled bridge below; another life snuffs out.

_Twenty-eight._

He maneuvers her against the window, too quickly for her to escape. This will _not_ be how she dies, not boxed in by a brute while her people fall below her.

“It’s almost a pity,” he says, mockingly ponderous, “to leave Dalaran’s Jedi here when you made such a generous offering. And you, the fiercest of them.”

“Your blood is the only offering I plan to make,” she pants. “For all that you’ve spilled.”

He swings down again and this time when her blade comes up to block his other arm shoots out, grabbing her around the neck and slamming her into the ground so quickly she barely feels it happen until she hits solid metal.

The folding, collapsing sensation in her ribs is terrible, and then his heavy sabaton crunches down on her wrist, grinding until her fingers open involuntarily and her lightsaber rolls from her. Then he stomps down _again_ ; she splits her own lip to deny him the satisfaction of a scream, slipping a knife from her belt with her free hand and sliding it into the back of his knee.

Finally, _finally_ his own blood pools. But not enough. It won’t be enough until he’s bled dry.

He bellows, tearing the knife from her and across the room with a thought.

“You _dare_ strike me with such a primitive weapon!?”

“Less primitive...than your armor, clearly,” she coughs, voice thick with the blood she’ll drown in if he doesn’t kill her faster.

Just how much force was in that blow he dealt her? Is she so weak he can toss her about like a _ragdoll?_

Another blow, this one mental. _Twenty-seven_. Under her, the floor seems to thrum.

Below them, she can hear her forces rallying. Liadrin must have decided to adopt her strategy and run straight for the head. There's that much – even if he cuts her down here, he won't win this. With his injury, Liadrin might defeat him before the rest of his men kill them all. If not her, someone else. Then the Republic can wipe up the dregs at their leisure.

Their sacrifice for Quel'Thalas isn't one she wanted to make, but it's better than the alternative.

She considers saying her farewells to Jaina, decides it would be cruel; she shouldn’t have to remember Sylvanas as whatever she might let slip like this.

Menethil bends over her, bares his teeth in another flawless, empty smile.

"You've been such a thorn in my side. Do you know how I plan to reward you?"

"I'd-" She chokes around the liquid in her throat. Spits at him, lips twisting into a darkly satisfied smile when it stains his greaves red as well as the deck. "I'd rather not die listening to your poor attempts to monologue."

His eye twitches, but he never stops bearing down on her.

"Oh, you'll be listening to something much sweeter than that. Quel’Thalas will be a test run, and I have very high hopes."

He speaks something into the arm not crushing her throat, and she picks up _Frostmourne_ and _fire_ before he turns her head to the large window, the sprawl of her planet below them.

He’s still forcing her gaze where he wants it when the blinding light descends from the sky like vengeful flames to devour her planet whole.

-

Everything happens too quickly, after that. Later, the memories will plague her in flashes:

The burst of strength her horror gives her, seeing that strange beam make contact. Enough to fling him off and return her blade to her hand with barely a thought.

The adrenaline, the satisfaction of _finally_ being able to return his strikes; he’s strong but she’s faster. And this horrible ship is _whispering_ to her, telling her she can kill him. If she takes more, just a little more of what it has to offer she can have her vengeance.

Her blade sears through armor, skin. Bit by bit, she darts inside his guard to cover him in shallow burns. It’s not enough but he’s beginning to tire, she’s so _close_.

Now she can see the beginnings of fear on his face, and she’s never, _never_ wanted something more than to tear him open and dig more out of him.

He shoves her away from him with a wave, sending her into the railing while he backs up again and inputs something into the navigation console before running for the corridor that will lead him away from her.

Another rib splinters inside her, but if anything the pain makes her more alert, more eager. Something's filling her with reserves she didn't know she had, a live wire that burns as much as it energizes.

Sylvanas surges forward again, only to be jerked backwards by a sudden grip on her armor.

She whirls in a frenzy, bringing her blade down in a diagonal strike that – shears through the hilt of Liadrin’s own lightsaber, and part of her hand. Horrified, she extinguishes her weapon.

Seemingly unhindered by the loss of her weapon and her _fingers_ – blighted sun what has she _done_ – Liadrin speaks quickly while what strength she has left flows out of her to mend the worst of Sylvanas’ lungs.

“We have to leave – we have minutes, general! Less!”

“He was _mine!_ ” she cries, near unhearing and so, so torn.

Perhaps sensing her coiling to spring again, Liadrin grabs her by the other shoulder with the hand that remains. The other woman wears the same look surely echoed on her own face; unbridled fury, tempered only by Liadrin’s legendary control.

“You were _dying_. If we’re here when this ship makes the jump, we all will. None of us can face him like this, _look_ at them!”

Everything in her cries out to chase after Menethil, hunt him until she can drag him to the ruined floor of the bridge and spend what seconds remain causing him the same immeasurable pain she’s only begun to grasp the surface of emerging within herself.

But. She does look, and she sees:

Her forces, scattered across the deck. A few still fighting, but like sleepwalkers. Some on their knees, helpless. Others wailing the way she’ll only allow herself to later, because they feel it too – thousands of lives extinguishing below them. The smoke still rising from what’s left of Liadrin’s hand, the metal of her gauntlet glowing with burning heat.

Minutes, she said. And the _people_ –

Outside, one side of Quel’Thalas vanishes in a wave of sick fire.

She allows herself one further moment of helpless rage, even for the confused and panicking bulk of his own army down below. He did this to his _own men_ , and she hates them but she hates him more.

Most viscerally for the way he stands at the other end of the long bridge now, letting her remember how close she’d gotten, before he vanishes.

She rallies, because she has no choice. Barks orders, tries to herd what’s left of them to the docking bay. _What’s left_. She took so many from Dalaran and now–

Above all, she remembers this:

The young communications officer planet-side who answers her frantic call, whimpering when she orders him to evacuate. The call drops abruptly, and–

The taste of her own blood in her throat, bitter and cloying as she hauls Anya to her feet and bodily drags her to their ship, shoving her unresponsive form into the arms of someone more alert before running back to help one more, just one, and–

The violent orange of the inferno Menethil unleashed on them closing in, and even behind the controls, even punching in the coordinates that will get them away from here, she isn’t sure they’ll make it until they start the jump as Menethil’s ship blinks away, and as theirs does the same there’s a noise like

like millions of people screaming and

the mad barrage of life after life extinguishing below them and

The conflagration surges over her, _through_ her, and this time she does scream.


	3. never knew daylight could be so violent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liadrin is confronted with how far she's willing to go. Valeera makes a bet with a bad hand. In the middle, an unrelated memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn’t mean for this update to take so long but it’s been a little crazy and a little rough. Keep on staying safe, yeah? Thanks to everyone still following along with this ride. 
> 
> This is too many words (ugghhh and I cut like five pages out) of ridiculously indulgent, wildly unedited content but yeehaw. I ran through it but it’s long so if you see any glaring mistakes feel free to let me know. Can you tell Florence lyrics are integral to this whole thing?
> 
> Time I spent determining if people can say “hell” in Star Wars: 3 minutes
> 
> Times I wrote “lucky charms” accidentally, inviting tonal chaos: 1

_3,963 BBY_

Liadrin stares at the hologram in front of her, only her flexing fingers out of view betraying her mounting disquiet. Magni Bronzebeard observes her in return, eyes deep-set and resigned.

“Could you repeat that?”

She doesn’t need to hear the words again, but if she tries to respond now she’ll plunge her unfeeling hand into the console and wrench its wiring out, and damn anyone watching.

Arthas’ hated, repulsive ship is _here_. Hovering above Manaan, taunting them with its presence. Probably he thinks to seize kolto production, but for once his plans matter very little to her. Only his proximity. If they kill him now it doesn’t matter what his dark heart can dream up.

Except that when Sylvanas led them to him with all the fervor that’s molded her into the only person who could have dragged their army criss-cross across the galaxy, the Republic caught up with them both. And instead of agreeing that whatever Arthas wants for Manaan needs to be stopped, they’ve opened communications to order them to let the Republic handle it themselves.

While blockading them. This isn’t one Republic ship – spread across the dark yawn of space is a small army that dwarfs their own.

The look Magni levels her with is full of regret, but he does as she asks and repeats the impossible while her hand clenches and clenches.

“Tell Windrunner she must stand down, master Jedi.”

It should mean something that he still respects her enough to use that title, but if the Republic thought her past working relationship with Magni would influence this discussion, they thought wrong. Liadrin would never ask that of Sylvanas, even if she didn’t dream of Arthas’ demise herself in what little sleep there is to be had.

The next breath she lets out is heavy. And the next. Behind her, she feels a flare of dismayed rage from Anya. Hears her snarl, and has to bite down to suppress her own.

“Admiral Bronzebeard, don’t dissemble. Why is our fleet being blocked?”

Magni heaves a sigh, tinny across the connection. He’s the only one in the holocall’s field of view, but she knows there are others in the room with him. How many figures from Republic command are witnessing this farce?

“The Republic cannae let this continue, lass. Yer dangerous, out o’ control. If yer still the woman I’ve known all these years, ye recognize that.”

Her fingers flex again. It’s hard, so hard to keep her face from twisting at his condescension. Not pinning her ears against her skull is harder still, but she manages by reminding herself that she leads the unit clustered around her in the command center, the ones who escaped her planet’s inferno. They take their cues from her and so she _must_ remain in control.

 _There is no chaos, there is harmony_ she begins, rote, but no. Harmony died with Quel’Thalas. But she can feel the current running through Anya, Alina, Velonara, searing red and dangerous, and if she gives into it too she’ll start a war with the Republic on the spot because that’s the position the sun-damned Republic put them in.

“No, admiral, I don’t. Arthas is within striking distance. Why not _help_ us?”

“There are rules. Ye cannae fight over Manaan, think o’ the damage ye’ll cause. Terms with the Selkath’re shaky enough as it is.”

The _damage_. As if her planet hadn’t been sacrifice enough. Besides which, being on “shaky terms” with the producers of the galaxy’s healing gel is better than _no_ terms if Arthas is allowed to seize this planet.

Liadrin tries, one last time. More for the sake of it than out of any real hope.

“Magni. Let us _end_ this.”

He stares at her across the stars; still regretful, yet unwavering. “Surrender is the right choice, Liadrin. Dinnae start a fight ye won’t win. I can send an emissary with terms over if ye wait for them.”

Terms Sylvanas will never accept. Terms that might get the representative killed, because Magni is right about one thing – they’re too out of control now. Will Sylvanas execute an emissary? Will _she?_

Time. It will buy them time.

“I will receive them,” she says, nearly whispers, and ends the call.

“Captain, you _can’t!_ ”

Alina, sounding terribly like a betrayed child.

Liadrin nearly _vibrates_ with the tight anger in her chest, behind her teeth, and she can't pull it back. At first. Little by little she finds what calm remains in her, like cool water steaming off her until she adds more.

More, like Velonara being dwarfed by her rucksack, and how they’d laughed. Like Sylvanas pretending she hated the good ration bars so Liadrin and the others could savor them. And, maybe, like the teasing light in dancing green eyes that crinkled at the corners when – no.

She extends that hard-won calm to the rest of them, unfurls her fist and ignores the deep ache in the remnants of her hand while she expends the remains of herself to soothe their flames, if only for a short while.

“It’s the only thing that will give us more time. A handful of hours, if we’re lucky. If it’s any consolation, Sylvanas will never agree.”

The words settle Alina and Velonara, but Anya’s scowl says she’s not so easily convinced – the red of her eyes gleams bright against her color-leeched face.

It doesn’t matter. They _will_ strike at Arthas. They will kill him, this time. And then...

Liadrin swallows back the mote of grief before it can grow. It would be so easy to sink into her feelings now, but she has a job to do. She needs to tell Sylvanas, and weather the fallout.

-

When she caught wind of what the Senate was willing to authorize, Valeera ran. First to her ship, small and built for stealth. Then all the way here, even if her craft isn’t made for jumps like this. Even if her hyperdrive likely isn’t fit for the return journey at this point.

Now here she is, at the head of Windrunner’s fleet. She was snatched the moment she set foot in the bay of the flagship, where she knows Liadrin is, loudly announcing herself with her hands clearly raised. For once she can’t afford to sneak around – the negotiations haven’t happened yet, but she’s running out of time.

The cells to either side of her are empty, making her the sole inhabitant of the ship’s prison. That makes things easier – there’d be no explaining away the conversation she’s about to have.

She walks restless laps around the small space, not bothering to look at the thick durasteel of the door anymore. There’s a hatch, but the construction is solid. No getting out of this one – it might be a mercy she’s alive at all. That that concerns her less than the information that drove her here is maybe the most concerning of all.

That hadn’t stopped her asking for Liadrin. Over and over until her increasingly irritated guard folded, likely more out of annoyance than genuine interest. Not that it matters; whatever works.

After that, it doesn’t take long before the clip of armored boots alerts her to the approach of another guard. Maybe someone with the seniority to get her the person she actually wants.

She isn’t expecting Liadrin to be the one who comes to a stop outside her cell, close enough for Valeera to see her eyes widen when they rest on her. Then her face goes blank, and she turns to the guard.

“You’re dismissed.”

The human snaps a salute and shuffles off while Valeera stares and stares, drinking Liadrin in after so long.

She never favored armor, preferring the soft flowing robes so typical of her Order. Now she’s decked out in a full complement of the stuff...and a _cloak_ of all things.

Valeera knew, of course. She’s seen the pictures, the scant footage. But it’s different, in person.

At least they’re not black. At least none of them are wearing _his_ colors yet. But red and gold is nothing like the white she didn’t even know she could miss until now. Hadn’t she always teased Liadrin about the lack of color?

And there’s something about the gauntlet on Liadrin’s right hand, something in the way she carries it that pricks at her awareness.

She wants to press closer to the small rectangular slot and ask Liadrin what the hell she’s doing. Wants to berate her, and shake her, and be held by her.

What comes out instead is: “Your _eyes_.”

They’re not the warm gold she’s used to. Something drained their light with their color, leaving them a pale yellow that’s startlingly predatory. It’s – unsettling. She never thought the older woman would seem so unfamiliar.

Liadrin doesn’t acknowledge the outburst, striding to the cell door.

“Valeera. You shouldn’t be here.”

 _Neither should you_.

“So are you going to let me out? I haven’t seen you in months. And since when do you have _two_ lightsabers?”

Both new; she’s more than familiar with the utilitarian cut of Liadrin’s hilt, and neither of the weapons resting at her waist hold that simple design.

“Since I learned one was insufficient. And why would I do that?”

Oh. That isn’t a joke – there’s none of the playfulness Liadrin tries so hard to suppress there, or the ease of their usual dance.

_plus six, minus three, plus five, plus four_

She’s never tried to stop Liadrin from reading her before, mostly because the older woman would never _try_ – Valeera knew that maybe weeks after meeting her. But from the way her eyes narrow at the cards flashing by in Valeera’s mind, she was definitely trying just now.

Well, Valeera’s always been more than a fair hand at pazaak.

“Why wouldn’t you?”

_minus two, plus three, plus two, double_

“A Republic spy, sneaking aboard our flagship before the agreed-upon parley? Perhaps you can tell me.”

Okay, maybe blocking her out is making this _worse_ but she doesn’t exactly want Liadrin to see what the last months have been like, never mind the intrusion.

From learning about Liadrin’s departure secondhand to...how she’d felt after news came back from Silvermoon. That there _was_ no more Silvermoon. The relief when some of Windrunner’s forces turned out to be alive. The confusion and spiraling apprehension when it became obvious they weren’t returning to Dalaran.

And now this. Standing in a cell on a ship that was once one of the Republic’s prides and now its second-greatest threat, according to the higher-ups. Liadrin, looking at her like a stranger. Valeera couldn’t have guessed how much that hurts.

 _minus one plus two wait fuck that’s a win, reset_ –

“Give me some credit, I only snuck past the rest of your fleet. You know I wouldn’t be in this cell if I didn’t want to be. Can’t a girl visit a friend?”

Her smile is too wide, flippant tone stretched too thin. This isn’t how she thought it would go. Even after months of information-gathering, after seeing the aftermath of Sylvanas’ aggressive push after Menethil for herself.

Something in her chest shifts, shards put together wrong.

“Is that what we are?” Liadrin asks, deadpan. Then, abruptly, “Are you here to kill Sylvanas?”

Valeera doesn’t miss a step, the leather of her outfit creaking as she eases into a slouch.

“Well we might not be after this if your dark leader...or should I say Lord?” She watches the set of Liadrin’s shoulders tighten into something excruciating, killing any satisfaction she might have felt at scoring a hit. “Anyway, not if she goes through with breaking a military blockade. So I’m really hoping she doesn’t do that. And no, I don’t think I like my chances against her. Do you think she’ll try and punch through?”

_plus three, double, minus five, plus one_

Liadrin looks at her a little too piercingly, then opens the cell door with a wave of her hand. _Rips_ it open, her frame rippling with the tension she’s no longer trying to disguise.

“Undoubtedly.”

It’s what they were all afraid of, then. Sylvanas is really going to start a war with the Republic in her rabid race to catch the _other_ Sith _already_ in a war with the Republic.

Fuck.

Valeera saunters into the jail proper, only darting a quick look at the door listing off its hinges. Without it between them, she can see how tired the other woman is. How deep the circles under those not-quite-right eyes are.

She takes two quick steps forward, wanting the comfort her hands on Liadrin will bring her – and freezes. Involuntarily. Because of the immense pressure rooting her to the floor.

Liadrin takes her own measured step back, hand still raised to hold Valeera in place.

“No,” she says dully. “Whatever you came here for, you won’t find it. Go back to your fleet.”

It’s dismissive, detached in a way Liadrin never could be despite her obvious efforts at the beginning of their acquaintance. Valeera tries to flip another card in her mind and draws a blank on the total.

She starts running through a truly awful limerick she picked up at a dive on Nar Shaddaa instead, satisfied when Liadrin’s ears both flick back a full inch.

“I didn’t even come here with–” She shakes her head. “Why are you acting like this?”

“How would you have me act, Valeera? Why _are_ you here?” Her ears slant back even further, trembling with something Valeera can’t quite read. “One last fling, is that it?”

Like the woman whose capacity for patience and kindness seemed limitless. Who frustrated Valeera with both of those things, because she hadn’t been used to either. Who treated her like more than a backroom secret, enough that even with the galaxy at her fingertips she kept coming back.

Who once thought the Jedi rulebook was more important than anything, except now she’s set those rules aflame.

“Well I wouldn’t say no. But I can’t believe...” She tries to flex her shoulders, has to work hard to keep up her unbothered facade when her muscles don’t so much as twitch. “You’re really going to let Windrunner do this? What happened to _protecting_ the Republic?”

Liadrin was so proud of that, once. Of being a protector. Though she’d never admit to any emotion, much less that one. But now her solid form coils into something threatening at the question; the cords of her neck stand out like chains.

“They should have sanctioned this!” she snaps. At her. Liadrin has never once snapped at her. “He destroyed my home, left a _void_ in its place, and they want us to sit back and let him do it again! I _felt_ it die. How could you _possibly_ understand!?”

“It was–” Her voice breaks, pathetically small, and she tries again. “It was mine too. The planet, I mean; you know how I feel about homes. I’m not exactly _un_ affected, but you’re starting a war here. One you can’t...if you hurt the Republic more now, the Empire could crush them even if you do beat Menethil.”

Liadrin flinches, so quick Valeera almost misses it, but then she’s shaking her head.

“Do you think I’m not aware? This would never have happened if the Republic had given us leave to go after him from the start!”

For the first time since she raced here, Valeera’s pierced by splinters of doubt that she’s going to get what she wants.

She tries to go Liadrin again, and this time her left foot makes it half a step before she’s wrenched back with all the calm control she’s used to, and none of the gentleness.

Never fight a Force-user head on, they said. She just never thought she’d be facing _Liadrin_. If she can take a step she can move her fingers, reach for one of the grenades at her waist, escape and regroup – but she doesn’t want that, so she keeps talking.

“...Yeah. Yeah, they should have done that. But fighting them for that mistake? That isn’t like you.”

“ _Like_ me?” The energy in the room shifts further, like a wave pulling back before crashing over an unsuspecting town. “How would you know what I’m like, Valeera? When you’ve always gone out of your way not to?”

That’s...not entirely unfair. She was fine with letting the thing between them remain trivial, ignoring that she knew what really had Liadrin scared: that _attraction_ wasn’t a strong enough word for her feelings.

But it isn’t that she doesn’t _know_. How Liadrin has a sense of humor she’s been trying to bury since Menethil went rogue – how she loathes beer and has a fondness for strong and slightly sweet drinks – how she’s completely adorable panting and bare, more than willing to bask in the brief affection Valeera offers after their meet-ups before one of them slips out the door.

How she’s the kind of person who would be more than willing to sacrifice herself so no one else had to.

But Valeera never acted on any of that knowledge and how it made her chest ache when she wasn’t occupying herself in other ways, because Liadrin was so firmly tied to the Order that reaching for anything more was impossible.

But that was before. Before Valeera spent one terrible day thinking Menethil killed her along with almost everyone else who went to Quel’Thalas. Before the last words she’d spoken to the other woman were angry, because what Liadrin was saying sounded too much like _goodbye_.

Then, she knew that word wasn’t strong enough for her either. And she thought she learned too late.

But it isn’t too late _yet_ , so she tries again.

“Maybe I was annoyed that your rules meant more than me, but I’m not blind. I _do_ know you, Liadrin. You’d never go through with this.”

“Oh?” It’s just one word, but the power it contains would make her squirm if she could move. “Wouldn’t I? Frostmourne touched us all.”

The derision dripping from her words, her bared teeth, is such a stark contrast to the serene Jedi she knew. Who was so hard to get a rise out of. But this isn’t like the thrill of Liadrin finally giving into her goading, this is _dangerous_.

Like the way she takes one gauntleted hand and curls its fingers into a fist. Under the click of metal, Valeera’s sharp ears catch the whir of – machinery?

She was playing with fire and she didn’t even know. She’d thought Liadrin as unchanging as the sunrise, even with all the reports she’s been flooded with for months. Some spy she is.

Silently, Valeera thinks a filthy string of Huttese and hopes the glottal language burns Liadrin's ears.

“Is this what you wanted? Hm?” Liadrin’s fist trembles, then clamps impossibly tighter. “All those times you tried to prove you could tempt me to be less of a Jedi?”

The lectures from Liadrin she’d hated so much, everything Intelligence told her about the dark side, and she never really understood until now. Her chest is tight but it takes her several disbelieving attempts to realize that’s because she _can’t breathe_.

“So long you’ve had me on your strings. Perhaps now you’ll dance on mine for once.”

Liadrin’s mouth writhes, caught between smile and sneer. The shards in Valeera’s chest grind against each other more viciously.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. If she meant less than the rules, and the rules meant less than _this_ , what’s left?

“Is that,” Valeera gasps around the vacuum in her lungs, “what you want? To hurt me?”

It’s a challenge, and for a moment she thinks Liadrin’s answer might be _yes_. That she might have changed so drastically and unimaginably that this will be the last miscalculation Valeera ever makes.

It only takes one concession, Liadrin told her once. How many must she have made by now?

Instead the older woman _recoils_ , armor clanging against the wall she flattens into. Her ears press close to her shoulders, trembling.

The air rushes back into Valeera’s lungs; she discovers she can move again when her knees buckle. By some miracle, she locks them again before she can hit the floor.

“I don’t, I – I _didn’t want_ , I’m...” Liadrin backs along that wall towards the exit, chest heaving, one step from blind panic. Strangely enough, that returns some strength to Valeera’s shaking legs. “I’m sorry. I’ll find you a ship, yours is still under guard and I can’t, if Sylvanas learns I let you go – I’m so sorry. You need to leave.”

She’s _babbling_. Fuck, how bad has it been since Silvermoon? It’s been _months_ , and she was acting strange even then.

Valeera breathes greedy lungfuls of air through the fear she’s never before felt around Liadrin. Of her, yes, of course of her after that. But mostly _for_ her.

Whatever she just caught a glimpse of is what Liadrin was balking against all along, and right now it’s obvious in every quaking line of her body that she’s terrified. Valeera’s next words stop her unsteady, shell-shocked path towards the door that exits the prison. 

“I’ll get on that ship if you come with me.”

“What?” Liadrin snaps her head up, startled out of her fugue.

Valeera subtly clears her throat, trying to force enough strength back into her voice to convince her.

“Come with me. _That’s_ why I’m here. Stop this and just, we’ll go to some tropical planet, or fucking Kashyyyk, or even back to Dalaran. They’ll let you, probably. They always liked you.”

She isn’t even making a cursory effort to protect her thoughts anymore, but then, Liadrin isn’t digging now. Instead she’s visibly reassembling her semblance of calm, piece by painstaking piece – but she never moves from where she’s pressed against the bulkhead, like it’s Valeera she’s afraid of.

“ _Why?_ ”

There are so many ways she could interpret that, but the answer Valeera goes with is what she wishes she’d been able to say months ago.

“Because I didn’t mean our last conversation like it sounded, and I’m not about to let you get hurt any worse.”

“I...” Liadrin slumps just a touch away from the wall, obviously staggered.

Her lips part, close. Open again, trembling.

“I can’t abandon my position. I’m one of Sylvanas’ captains, I know you know that.”

She sounds resigned, and that shakes Valeera most of all. Whatever consequences Liadrin’s facing, _will_ face from this insane campaign, she’s already made up her mind to accept them.

“You _need_ to. You can’t stay here, it’s hurting you in ways I” – _don’t know how to help_ – “can’t even imagine. I didn’t get it before but...” Her hand brushes her throat. “Yeah.”

Liadrin curls her fingers around nothing until she sees the way Valeera can’t help watching them warily. Then, she shoves them roughly behind her armor.

“Sylvanas is...fracturing. We all are.” Her teeth press into her bottom lip until they draw bright blood that runs down her chin. “It’s only getting worse, but we’re so close to Arthas now. We knew what might happen if we went down this path but we... We hoped to catch him sooner. I can help her stop him before it’s too late.”

“It’s _already_ too late. Liadrin, the Republic is _right here_. What are you going to do against them, huh? You can’t tell me you really want to fight them, don’t pretend with me. Please.”

The older woman sighs, exhausted, shoulders rolling with the way she must be gripping her hands behind her back. She’s still hovering near the door but – she hasn’t opened it yet.

Valeera’s never said _please_ outside the bedroom, but that must be what does it because Liadrin finally says something that sounds like her.

“Of course not. When we break through, they’ll retaliate in short order...but we’ll catch him first. We’ll end it first. That will be worth it. And they may still accept a surrender then, from those of us that choose to.”

 _This_ is why Valeera’s here, why she rushed to infiltrate the second most dangerous ship on her side of the galaxy with none of her usual lackadaisical ease. Because she _is_ Republic, or _was_ – her job is up in the air after how careless her flight here was.

It isn’t lost on Valeera that she’s been saying _them_ , not us. But hell, she’s been with them for nearly six years largely _because_ of Liadrin. Lor’themar might let her come back without consequence, but whether she even wants that is a thought for after she drags Liadrin out of this disaster.

The bottom line is, she knows what the Senate will do. She didn’t have the clearance to be anywhere near that deliberation, but she’s not a spy for nothing.

“They won’t. They won’t let any of the commanders surrender. Are you... _fuck_.”

Liadrin sees the moment she realizes, offers her a bitter facsimile of a smile. Valeera shrinks from it, a little bit closer to panic herself.

“That might save the grunts, but you...you already know. You’re going to let them kill you.”

“Perhaps I deserve it.” Her unfamiliar eyes drop from Valeera’s again. “How could I inflict _this_ on you?” She cuts her hand through the air in front of her face, and again Valeera catches a mechanical hum. “When you make me feel so much that I... I can’t...”

Valeera understands too much, suddenly. That Liadrin is frightened for her too, because she’s afraid of _herself_. It was never about the rulebook, not really.

She’s never been _fond_ of the Jedi Order, but the sharp flash of loathing she feels for them in that moment surprises even her.

Valeera covers half the distance between them in a heartbeat, confident enough for both of them.

“No. No, forget the handbook. The way you, _we_ , feel about each other won’t change who you are.” Liadrin reels at the implicit admission, but Valeera’s not done. “You just told me you watched your home _die_ , of course none of you walked away from that the way you were. But you’re not a villain.”

She dares to get closer, watching for any sign Liadrin will bolt. When that doesn’t happen, when she just keeps staring like Valeera just decked her, she slides between Liadrin and the door and runs her hands up the arms of that burnished armor to ground both Liadrin and herself.

Liadrin quivers under her, but she allows the touches. Allows Valeera to press their lips together more softly than she ever has, until hers come away dabbed with the red that still drips from Liadrin’s.

“You have never, ever been what you’re afraid of. I told you I wouldn’t let that happen, remember?” She laughs, shaky. “And it hasn’t. It _hasn’t_ , Liadrin. So let’s get out of here before it does.”

“I _attacked_ you,” Liadrin rasps, faint.

“You threatened me. Which, yeah, don’t do that again. I’d hate to have to show you what I’ve learned about fighting you Force types.”

“I’d hate to experience it, I’m sure.” The sound Liadrin makes might have been a laugh in another lifetime. Valeera shifts in closer, bunching the folds of that ridiculous cloak in her hands. “I will never be able to express how sorry I am. But...”

She doesn’t like the sound of that. They don’t have time for buts.

“If I leave I can’t look after the others. Quel’Thalas was a nightmare, and they’re spiraling. Sylvanas is trying, but she needs me here.”

“ _Listen_ to me. You can still give them the chance to surrender later if Windrunner succeeds. But if you stay here, I don’t know. Maybe you won’t want that anymore.”

“I–” Liadrin starts, falters. “It’s just a little longer, Valeera. He’s right _there!_ ” She sweeps her arm in a frustrated arc, careful not to jostle her.

And the thing is, Liadrin’s right. He _is_ right here, even with two fleets who would shoot him down in a heartbeat positioned so near. Almost like he knows what Windrunner will do, and is taunting her with that closeness.

If she chases after him like that, if _Liadrin_ does... They can’t afford that, and neither can the galaxy. That might be what he _wants_.

“And then the Republic executes you in the end. Unless you leave with me, now. If we do this before Windrunner gives the order, my ship can record that you weren’t involved in what she’s about to do.”

“I’ve been involved from the beginning. I was there when she made the overture to the Republic, did your handler tell you?”

Valeera nods. Thanks to Lor’themar, she was one of the first to know. That footage hadn’t been easy to watch.

“So you know I let this happen.” She lets out a choked sound, and Valeera’s horrified to see the gleam of tears in her eyes. “I could have dragged her back to Dalaran by the hair if need be. But even now I don’t regret not doing it, even if she might have listened, then.”

“Or she might’ve tried to run you through. The only way I’m getting off this ship is with you, Liadrin. Well?”

If only she had time to try and convince the older woman this isn’t her fault, but there _isn’t_ any. There’s no clock in the cells, and her learned sense of time is too rattled – she doesn’t know how long they have until the Republic emissary arrives, and Windrunner refuses their terms.

Liadrin won’t act for herself. Valeera has only ever seen her be selfish around...well, her. So, fine. If Liadrin will never pick herself, maybe she can still pick Valeera.

“If...” Liadrin closes her eyes and bares her throat to the ceiling. “If I do this, I have to tell Sylvanas. I won’t just abandon her without a word. I owe her more than that.”

Not for the first time, Valeera curses how decent of a person Liadrin just can’t stop being.

“Will she let you go?”

To her relief, Liadrin thinks it over. At least whatever answer she’s about to get will be honest.

“Yes.” It’s only a little hesitant. “Yes, I think she will, still. And if she chooses not to, well. I’m not powerless, Valeera.”

That’s true. Liadrin is blindingly powerful, when she chooses to be. But if she has to face Windrunner alone, without Valeera because the spy’s presence would only make everything worse, what if, what _if–_

Valeera slaps a surreptitious hand against the back of her leg. Gets a handle on herself, because this is what she came here for.

“Fine, you noble _idiot_. You tell Windrunner, and I’ll meet you on the flight deck. But if she wants a fight, run. I’ll be really put out if I came all this way to save your life only to have you throw yourself on her lightsaber.”

Liadrin doesn’t even make a quip about being insulted. Instead, she carefully steps out of the circle of Valeera’s arms.

“If I’m not there in half an hour, go. Promise me you’ll go.”

Valeera should have come _sooner_.

“I’ll go,” she lies. “So you’d better not be late.”

Valeera doesn’t believe in much, but she sends up a stark prayer to whatever the Force is anyway after Liadrin slips through the door.

-

“General.”

Liadrin comes to a stop well before Sylvanas’ – heavily dented – desk, deliberately out of her range. Interesting.

Sylvanas begins tensing for whatever blow she’s about to be dealt, though outwardly she remains placid. For now.

“Captain. Do you have a report for me?”

“I dealt with the spy. They were no threat to you.”

Liadrin reports this so carefully, but she’s clearly assessing her. Seeking out all of her cracks. Would she pry her fingers into them if she could?

She’s angling away from Sylvanas unconsciously, preparing for a strike she undoubtedly expects. And why – is this simply a reaction to earlier? Sylvanas threw her desk at her _wall_ , not her captain.

Treachery from most, she could handle. Has handled, when necessary. When weaker souls were drawn to Menethil’s wretched source of power, and she had to cut them down before they became his weapons instead of hers.

She’s looked her own forces in the eye, seen through their pathetic excuses – what if he wins, what if he’s right, what if the Empire could- – and ended them in short order.

But Liadrin?

Teeth cut the inside of her cheek, the tang of copper on her tongue failing to calm her rising wariness. She’s been silent for too long, she knows, so she finds the words.

“You’re so sure, are you?”

“I am. Trust me, they weren’t here for you.”

“Trust you?” Her laugh is more like a groan, deep and drowning, another weakness for Liadrin to prize open. “How can I trust anyone when I can barely control my own army in the field? When the Republic hounds my steps instead of Menethil’s? And you, captain, are holding something back from me.”

Sylvanas rises and slides her hands forward across the desk, a test. Liadrin stands her ground, but nods to concede the point.

“Nothing that would cause you harm, I swear it.”

She looks at her longtime ally. Her friend, when she could still afford such. _Truly_ looks, and sees blood on her jaw, carelessly smeared. The rise and fall of her chest too controlled, a lie. Restless pricks of agitation sparking off her that even a month ago she could have concealed, and would now be obvious to even the most untried padawan.

Beneath her stern mask, Liadrin is a wreck. Sylvanas sprawls her fingers over the lip of her desk to avoid reaching for her lightsaber.

“Then why are you afraid?”

“I’m here to ask your permission to resign.”

The silence that follows, between them and in her own mind, is the anticipation after the first flash of lightning. Then the words catch up, and thunder cracks loud through her.

“You would do this to me now? _Now!?_ ”

“It’s my last chance to.”

That Liadrin doesn’t bother to pretty up her words in the usual way is perhaps more telling than the way she’s still holding herself closer to the entrance than Sylvanas.

“Without you, our chance of failure is _astronomically_ worse.” Her gauntlet squeals against the fist she makes. “Why now? Do they have a Frostmourne of their own, is that what their spy told you? Would you abandon me here out of _cowardice?_ ”

“If they did, I would help you cut them down.” Liadrin sounds frayed, utterly depleted, but the time she could feel sympathy is weeks past. “General, if I stay I condemn myself. And the others.”

“We are _all_ condemned!” There’s no fighting the tight ball of repudiation in her chest, writhing and growing into thorns that pierce her heart and fill her with hot fury. “You understood that, accepted it!”

“You and I, yes. Your other officers. But not the rest. If I stayed, after we defeated Arthas it’s,” her breath stutters, “possible that if you committed to fighting the Republic, I would follow you.”

That Liadrin still believes Menethil will end this conflict slaughtered in the manner he deserves matters much less than that she’s willing to run before she can help that happen. And, further...

“Would that be so bad?” Those thorns expand, bleeding her and filling her veins with hungry fire. “They might deserve it. You were with me, Liadrin. You felt the same betrayal I did.”

“It–” Liadrin takes a staggered breath, voice hoarse. “It isn’t why we started this.”

“If they had intervened, Quel’Thalas would still–!” Sylvanas constricts her fingers hard enough to add another dent to her desk, reveling in the screech of metal on metal. “If they were strong enough to stand against him, instead of _reacting_ to him like simpletons! You can’t forgive them either, I know. It _bled_ off you when you reported Bronzebeard’s entreaty to folly.”

Liadrin burns with something like the same fever that rages through her, eyelids fluttering against the way Sylvanas knows she wants to embrace it. It wouldn’t take much more; Sylvanas can _make_ her stay. She’s abruptly and fiercely certain of it.

“You’re right,” Liadrin gasps. “I loathe the decision the Senate made. Those individuals, I will never forgive. But I won’t fight the Republic as a whole, Sylvanas. And before, you wouldn’t have asked it of me.”

She’ll agree if Sylvanas keeps on. She’s too raw now, a thread from finally letting go of her cursed control. What an asset an unleashed Liadrin would be on the field, finally wielded like the weapon she – no, the game piece, _no_ –

Years ago, before armor and wars, Liadrin helped her glue Alleria’s bedding to the ceiling. All of it, from her pillows to the feathers inside them.

Alleria was only a knight then, but still so gravely responsible. When they heard her shrill reprimands from down the hall, they’d managed one innocent look at each other, one smile like a secret, before bursting into laughter.

She still remembers, even now. Remembers also, suddenly, how dimmed Jaina’s natural brilliance had been that first time they spoke, hiding herself away from the others because she let them convince her Menethil’s weakness was her responsibility.

Now, Liadrin fights for composure like a drowning woman, looking at Sylvanas like she still believes she’ll extend her hand. So she swallows around the hurt, the dark instinct.

“Go. Before I have a chance to consider how this will affect my plans. No one will stop you.”

If she considers the calculus here, now, she will never allow Liadrin to leave. Sylvanas drags her focus to Dalaran, to laughing around a table, to the warmth of the sun on their faces after lessons.

Liadrin stumbles back from the force of the snapping tether between them, but stays in the doorway a moment longer. Harried and hesitant, a dozen meaningless words on her lips.

“ _Now_ , Liadrin.”

Liadrin does go, but she looks back a final time before leaving Sylvanas in the room filled with the furniture she's ruined.

“I wish I could have saved you.”

It’s a pretty thought, but a thought is all it can be now. It does mean something that Liadrin was being honest.

-

3967 BBY

 _The kiss is soft, and so too is the way Sylvanas’ hands card through Jaina’s hair as she presses her gently into a shelf at the back of the archives. It makes a mess of her braid but she hardly minds, this is everything – the pressure, the reassurance, the_ rightness _but_ –

‘A shame he was drawn away from the Order’s values.’

_A memory, but a recent one. The way all similar comments have been for the past two years._

_The elf presses more firmly against her, filling her senses with mint and something like the crisp scent of the courtyard after rain, and she wants it so much but–_

‘Because of, you know...’

_The whispers, the looks, were they right did she ruin him–_

_Her hands find Sylvanas’ shoulders, pushing her away despite how much she wants to draw her closer._

_“Ah.” Sylvanas backs up immediately, face carefully neutral, though there’s nothing she can do to hide the disappointment radiating from her like wisps of stormcloud – not from Jaina. “Forgive my mistake, I thought that you might – that you reciprocated.”_

_In the face of the elf’s clear regret, Jaina abandons her own composure._

_“I did – do. It’s, it’s complicated, I, the Order...”_

_“The Order forbids it,” Sylvanas drawls. “Of course. I wouldn’t want to make a troublemaker out of you.”_

_“Don’t do that. It isn’t fair. Can – will you let me explain?”_

_To her credit, Sylvanas acquiesces with a murmured apology. She draws Jaina away from the corner they’d found themselves in, to a long bench between high shelves._

_Jaina sits first, cursing the tremor in her legs. Trawling through her past to dig up her mistakes isn’t where she wanted this afternoon to end up, but...she’d kissed back. Sylvanas deserves more than a shove and silence._

_“I’m sure you know Arthas and I were...together. I think everyone knows.” She brushes the coarse brown robes hanging off one arm over her eyes. “So you must also have heard what people said afterwards. That our...relationship was what began his fall.”_

_Sylvanas sits, unmoving, until it’s clear that’s all Jaina can dredge up. Then she leans in, laying a hand next to Jaina’s thigh. Not touching, but close enough for her to imagine the warmth. Tides, she wishes Sylvanas_ would _but that can’t be right, not when she’s the reason Arthas..._

_“Did you love him?”_

_Jaina startles, staring at Sylvanas like she’s speaking a language unknown to her._

_“I...what?”_

_She can feel the anxiety whipping around her, the uncertainty, but Sylvanas leans into it with her own safety and assurance._

_“Menethil. Were you in love with him?” She softens her approach, sends another whisper of comfort to warm her. “Trust that I have a point to this, Jaina.”_

_She does. Trust, that is. Sylvanas makes it so easy, and that should frighten her but she leans into it instead. The elf’s presence is warm, steady. Disarmingly affectionate._

_“Yes. I did, once.”_

_It doesn’t hurt as much as she thought it would to admit that._

_Sylvanas smiles, moving her hand to stroke along the crook of Jaina’s elbow. The bench creaks beneath them, sending a poof of dust into the air to dance in the dim sunlight filtering through the long windows._

_“Do you remember our first conversation?”_

_“Oh, when we both made fools of ourselves?” Jaina huffs, lips twitching despite herself. “How could I forget?”_

_“Good, then you’ll remember what I told you then.” Her hand reaches Jaina’s shoulder and begins to play with her braid. “Don’t let his failings hold you back. If love is the curse, how is it you’re still so marvelous? If anything, the curse is him.”_

_Sylvanas does have a way with insulting Arthas, among other things. But still, Jaina can’t quite believe it._ Love _, Sylvanas said. As if those are feelings the elf could hold for_ her _. It feels like an ethereal gift that will crumble if she dares to cup it in her hands._

_“Maybe I’m just poison.”_

_“No.” It’s such a simple denial, but there’s no hesitation there; Sylvanas traces her lower lip with a reverent thumb. “Never that. If anything, you’re a balm.” Her lips curve upwards. “My lucky charm.”_

_She smiles up at Jaina, open and hopeful in a way that makes her look charmingly younger._

_“I’m not afraid of this, between us. Are you, still?”_

Yes _, but not because of Sylvanas. But – this feels safe. As natural as turning a page in the only paper book she’s been lucky enough to acquire._

_She wraps her arms around the elf’s shoulders, noting the lift of her ears with a smile of her own before folding her legs over Sylvanas’ on the bench._

_“I do want this. I want_ you _. This feels too perfect to be wrong, doesn’t it?”_

_Sylvanas’ beaming grin lights up her own heart._

-

It’s thirty-five minutes before Liadrin returns. She moves quickly, scanning the landing bay with none of her usual poise until her panicked gaze lights on where Valeera thought she was pretty well hidden by the ship she picked out.

“You shouldn’t have waited,” is all Liadrin says when she makes it to her.

She looks entirely wrung out, and the flat fatigue in her voice reaffirms Valeera’s regret _– s_ he should have come _weeks_ ago. Even though Sylvanas made it clear future Republic visitors wouldn’t be welcome after that first idiotic incident with the sniper. Whoever signed off on that deserves more than a good firing.

“I was going to give you another five at most, don’t worry.”

That’s a lie too, but Liadrin doesn’t need to know that. One more blow might just knock her down.

That observation proves regrettably prescient, because once they’re in the air Liadrin slumps to the floor of the cockpit with a clatter, like whatever kept her going these last long months finally evaporated and left her with nothing.

“Hey, no–” Valeera swivels around in the pilot seat, wishing she knew how alarmed to be.

When she sees the other woman isn’t injured, just absolutely drained, her next breath leaves in a rush. She finishes the command that will launch them near a safehouse she really hopes no one’s occupying right now; they can take a minute there, figure out the rest of it.

“Come here, okay? That looks damn uncomfortable.”

Liadrin drags herself into a lopsided sitting position, but doesn’t move any closer. Valeera bites at her lip, hands fluttering before she forces them into her lap. Now that the situation’s sinking in, she feels a little like laying on the floor herself.

“Look, let’s get you out of that armor. Can’t have it scraping up my new ship, right?”

And of course, _that_ gets Liadrin moving. Enough to let Valeera start working at the buckles of the plate over her chest, finally letting that drop to the floor. Maybe breaking the illusion that Valeera is at all concerned about the ship, but Liadrin’s already this close, so.

She slides the greaves off, the vambraces. But when she gets to the gauntlets, Liadrin goes hard as steel.

“Not those.”

Liadrin’s _frightened_ , so she immediately backtracks.

“Okay. Okay, no problem. I can appreciate committment to an aesthetic.”

When it’s done Liadrin stands before her in a dark undershirt and tight pants, looking as though the slightest breeze would send her crashing back to the deck. Valeera coaxes her into her lap with soothing touches, ignoring the way the chair creaks under them.

It’s a tight fit, but the solid weight of her eases a tension Valeera didn’t realize the full load of until now. She practically sinks into the chair with the rush of relief.

She did it. She asked Liadrin to pick her, to save herself for once, and she _did_.

“This is foolish,” Liadrin mutters against Valeera’s neck. “What were you thinking? What am _I_ thinking?”

“I’m thinking I wanted to get you out of there,” Valeera says lightly. “Since I love you and all.”

Liadrin sags against her, warm and real.

“I’m so sorry.” She clutches the back of the chair instead of Valeera, gazing down at her with eyes that are still more than a little wild. “Everything, I’m, I don’t...I don’t know what to...”

“Shh, hey. I’ve got you, okay? We’ll figure it out.”

Liadrin shudders, then finally breaks apart into the most delicate little tremors. Right now, it doesn’t even matter that she can’t reciprocate the words. She’s _alive_ , and that’s all Valeera wants.

What a thing to realize.

Later, still drifting towards the safehouse and all the plans they’ll need to make once they reach it, Liadrin stills. There’s a new consternation about her, thankfully nothing like the helpless trembling of earlier – pensive, not panicked.

“I should have been able to help her,” she sighs into Valeera’s shoulder.

Valeera runs a hand through her hair, gently, working it out of the unraveling bun. It’s clear who _her_ is, though frankly she’s grateful Liadrin hadn’t pressed harder on the other ship. Valeera’s skill is being near-invisible, not working miracles.

“Could anyone have?”

It’s rhetorical, but Liadrin hums thoughtfully, just a little energy returning while she thinks it over. And then, unexpectedly, she comes up with an answer.

“Can you send a message to Master Jaina Proudmoore?”

Valeera smiles maybe her first real smile of the day.

“Gorgeous, I can send a message to anyone.”


	4. tell me what you want me to say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaina confronts the echoes of her past in the present. Sylvanas is given a choice, and makes one in return. 
> 
> Or, Jaina weathers several interviews, one more important than others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a goddam crazy time. Hope all of y’all are staying safe as best you can.
> 
> Here, finally, is the chapter that is the whole reason for this AU. Was also going to be part of the previous one, but it was taking too long and got too long and ugghhh I should edit this more but I just want to send it into the world.
> 
> See, I _am_ capable of writing a chapter without a flashback! (this time)
> 
> Without further ado, Sylvaina finally talk again.

“It’s not too late.”

It isn’t the first – or even third – time Jaina’s asked, but Alleria _needs_ to let her go. Jaina needs to borrow her ship to make the series of jumps that will get her to Sylvanas fast enough.

She’s never been one for traipsing around off-world, so her own ship is woefully under-maintained and if she can’t get there in time...

And the eldest Windrunner is the only one with the status to cover for her who might listen, though so far she’s been met with a stoic wall and it's all she can do not to let her desperation drive her to simply wresting the passcode from her, odds against the two sisters at once be damned.

More concerning is that she can _see_ the fight happening. She'd incapacitate Vereesa first, wear Alleria down bit by painstaking bit, and plumb the depths of her mind until she has what she wants.

It isn't right, it isn't – isn't what she wants to do, to think like. But it is, and that's almost less of an obstacle for her right now than getting what she needs if Alleria forces her hand.

Alleria must sense some of that intent for all that Jaina's shoving the instinct down, because she's been wary since Jaina barged in. 

“It was too late before this,” Alleria refuses again despite that wariness, grim. “She’s willing to start another war, this hasn’t been salvageable for months.”

If the Republic tries to stop her advance. If they go through with the order to call Sylvanas off or cut her down. If Jaina doesn’t at least _try_.

It’s barely been twenty minutes since someone hiding behind too much encryption to untangle sent a message to her personal account too horribly plausible to be a prank, clearly typed in a hurry – what’s happening on Manaan isn’t even on the news yet.

_You don’t know me, but I have Liadrin with me. She says: “If Jaina needs proof, tell her I still remember how she avoided Malfurion’s lecture on the finer points of control and levitation when we were children.” Sounds like a story I’ll have to get out of her later._

_So, good news: she defected. Bad news: Windrunner’s caught between the Republic and Menethil on Manaan and she’s not standing down from either one, and the Republic’s there for her, not him. They want her to back off. If she goes for him anyway, they’ll consider it an act of war and execute her when they win._

_Liadrin says she’s dangerous, but also that maybe you can help. I think she’s just as worried about Windrunner as what might happen to the Republic, and it’s a little hard to blame her right now._

_Honestly not sure what you could do, unless you can perform magic. Then again, you’ve got the Force, right? So if there’s any kind of miracle you can pull out of a hat, do it. Soon. There’s maybe an hour until all hell breaks loose, and only that because of bureaucratic tape because the Republic’s sending someone over for “peace talks”._

_Liadrin insists I need to add: don’t hurt them, they’re desperate. Also that she’s worried they might hurt_ you _, so be careful and all that._

_If you do decide to do...something, then good luck, Proudmoore._

First, Jaina could only stare. Then, she read it again. A second, third time.

Then, she put one foot in front of the other in a stumbling, off-balance flight through the corridors until she found Alleria and Vereesa and pressed them both into the younger Windrunner’s room.

She hardly noticed the knights staring after her in the sun-dappled halls, unable to spare any concern for the ones who only ever whispered behind her back.

Even if it’s been months – even when she couldn’t work up the courage to request a meeting with Sylvanas before, because if Jaina saw the same vain disregard on her face she...she doesn’t know what she’d have done, but now–

_“–they’ll execute her–”_

Barely twenty minutes, but still too long. Jaina remembers how Sylvanas was just before she left, unable to disguise the undercurrent of anger bleeding from her like shadows. This new, more reckless version of her won’t let the Republic dissuade her, she knows it.

“She hasn’t yet,” Jaina insists now, addressing Alleria with what composure she can still fake. “There’s still time, let me try. If I talk to her now, Alleria please, she might still–”

She reaches for the words, but they won’t come. There’s a horrible familiarity in pleading with people to listen to her and being ignored.

She’s always had her voice, until she doesn’t. Until it’s taken away from her again and again.

Her face ruddies, eyes hot. Frustration and disappointment in herself twine around her like shrouds, but she switches tacks to grasp for _anything_. If Alleria still cares at all, then one argument might still work.

“It wasn’t her fault the Republic made a ham-fisted attempt to kill her.”

Alleria doesn’t insult her intelligence by arguing _not officially_ this time.

“She’s _gone_ ,” the elf bites out, visibly distressed by her own words. “She was rabid even then, Jaina. There’s nothing left of the woman you...you loved.”

That’s never rested easy with Alleria. Even if Jaina understands why, of _course_ she understands, that hesitation marks one more echo piled over the rest.

Vereesa speaks up over Jaina’s wincing silence, though so far she’s mostly remained quiet and hunched in on herself on the bed to silently observe the standoff.

“I was sloppy, Lady Sun, you saw it. She could have killed me and she didn’t. That has to mean something, doesn’t it?”

It’s more plea than question. Alleria shrugs it off; Vereesa sinks back down with the weight of her disapproval, lips trembling.

But the burns on Vereesa’s robes, that day she came back trembling and despondent... If Sylvanas got that close without landing a fatal blow, Vereesa might be right.

“She should never have fought you at all,” Alleria contends. The words sound final, but her resolve flickers, unsure.

From what Jaina knows about that ill-fated mission, Sylvanas thinks her sisters were involved in the plot to kill her. If she held back anyway, maybe – it was months ago, but _maybe_...

“Alleria,” she begins again, mind racing, “why is the Republic trying to stop her _now?_ They’ve never supported her, but you can’t say this isn’t different. Don’t tell me it’s about the potential casualties; that didn’t matter before.”

Alleria raises both brows very slowly, appraising Jaina with what might be reluctance in the shuttered blue of her eyes before the answer falls from her lips like slow poison.

“Because if Sylvanas fights Arthas, we lose. Either he defeats her and subjugates her army, or vice versa. She took too many of us; we can’t defend against what she might decide to do.”

She’s momentarily struck dumb by that. By the sheer stupidity of whoever made the call.

“They’re forcing a war on two fronts because they’re afraid of her? That’s insane, she could cripple them and they’re not giving her a choice!”

“She _made_ her choice,” Alleria insists. But Jaina’s known her for too long not to recognize the way one shoulder sets back defensively, hands too deliberately still at her sides.

She’s not convinced; Jaina can still persuade her.

“Let me try,” she repeats. “What is there to lose?”

“ _You_ ,” Alleria stresses, as if it should be obvious.

Maybe it is. But even if she let herself imagine a world where Sylvanas would choose to fight her, she can’t bare to dwell on it. Not again.

“Maybe, but I need to know. If...if she’s as unreachable as _he_ was.”

Alleria watches her carefully, shoulders tight. Considering, finally.

“If she is?”

If Sylvanas gives her the same chilling look of superiority, if she returns Jaina’s sincerity with laughter and a promise of death, then...

“Then I won’t make the same mistake again.”

On the edge of her bed, Vereesa curls further into herself at the vow.

The mistake was letting Arthas go, when she might have been able to stop him. At the expense of her own life, undoubtedly, but if she could have prevented his terrible, mad rise before it truly began...

But a part of her loved him, even then. Like the parts of her that still love Sylvanas now.

Alleria nods, pained. It occurs to Jaina that none of them are very good Jedi, and that it’s hard to tell if that matters to her anymore.

“Very well. I won’t inform the Council, and my ship is yours. Will you...” She sighs, some of her frustration melting away to reveal one more person at the mercy of too many sleepless nights. “Is your intention to bring her back to Dalaran?”

“I’m going to try to save her life.”

“Please,” Vereesa begs, soft and hiccuping. “I’d go too but she hates me, she hates both of us, and I just want...I want her _alive_.”

There’s only one way. _One_ approach that might work, if she can come up with the rest of a plan in time.

“I will do,” Jaina says, selecting her words with a jeweler’s precision, “everything that I can.”

Vereesa chances a look directly at her, her first since Jaina burst into her room and said her sister was about to commit to a choice that would lead either to her death or to so many more. The family resemblance is obvious in the determined set of her jaw.

“Be careful.”

Any response Jaina could give would be too loaded, after–

 _“Please just be careful_.”

 _“He’ll find I’m dangerous, as well_.”

Out of words after all, she turns away and runs for Alleria’s ship.

Letting Arthas go _was_ her greatest mistake. Her endless burden to bear. But she can’t be sure she’s telling the truth now, when she says she won’t repeat it.

-

When Jaina blinks above Manaan, the only relief she finds is in the absence of pitched battle. For now.

The Republic tries to hail her, likely wondering what Alleria Windrunner could possibly want here, but Jaina doesn’t have time for wasted words. If they’re counting on Sylvanas striking first, they won’t shoot now.

Instead, she drifts closer to Sylvanas’ ship. There’s no attempt to open communications, but no one shoots her down. At this distance she can sense Sylvanas again, dark and brooding. No words, just a slow swirl of displeasure.

A swirl that she battles with gritted teeth as she’s allowed to land, easing into the bay despite her painful grip on the controls.

Even their shared viscous unease is some small comfort. They aren’t completely cut off, even now, despite Sylvanas’ forceful attempt to sever their bond at the start of this nightmare.

No one meets her when she steps out of her ship into the familiar bay. Sylvanas knows she’s here, just as she can sense the elf on the bridge. They’ve never been able to mask their presence from each other, not since that first meeting.

She wonders what Sylvanas feels from _her_ , and whether it will be enough to influence her one way or the other. Whether they can still fit together, when the elf still refuses to let Jaina back in.

Sylvanas will at least let her talk. Even now, reaching out with the Force over and over and being repelled by a wall of resentment so strong it makes her nauseous, she can sense the reluctant permission.

Her familiar walk to the bridge is smooth; what personnel she encounters let her pass with only curious or unsettled looks. She receives the frowns, the confusion, and the obvious distrust with the same cloak of indifference.

An order, then. Will that command still stand when it’s said and done?

When she makes it to the right floor, someone approaches with intent. She recognizes the elf faintly, a woman she never took proper time to talk with before. Jaina preferred research to company after Arthas, with a very few exceptions.

But this woman...Jaina’s seen her laughing with Sylvanas on occasion, in what feels like another lifetime. A name floats up from the tumultuous depths: Anya. Stubborn, she remembers, with a playful streak a mile wide. But pale now, snarling. No hint of future pranks in her eyes.

The elf stops several feet away, blocking the way forward.

“Proudmoore.” Not a greeting, but a mistrustful statement.

“Anya. I’m glad you’re alive.”

“You shouldn’t be.” The slight elf scowls; Jaina fights not to mirror it. “You’re only here because our general allows it, and once she’s discarded the Republic dog it’ll be a very bad time for you to be on this ship.”

This waste of time is the last thing she needs, but before she commits to simply shoving the woman aside like a soiled rag, she remembers – _“Don’t hurt them, they’re desperate.”_ – and her half-raised hand drops slowly to her side.

Jaina doesn’t like the implications of _discarded_ but pushing that aside, that means–

“The emissary? They’re here, now?”

Anya’s baleful eyes narrow even further.

“How would you know about that?”

“That’s not important, if they’ve arrived there’s no time.” Her hand presses into her side against the action her urgency demands she take. “Anya, please. Has this discussion started yet?”

“ _Discussion_ ,” Anya mocks. “If you must know, they’re searching the fool now.”

“Then I am begging you.” Jaina spreads her arms low on either side of her, palms out. “Let me talk to Sylvanas first.”

If anything, Anya bristles more defensively.

“Why? So you can hurt her too?”

There’s no one else in the hall; Jaina could clear the way easily, effortlessly. Anya’s skilled, undoubtedly, but it’s nothing next to her. Again, she pictures the elf’s body crashing against a bulkhead, and again, she shoves that down with all the rest and begins the familiar, grating mantra: _there is no emotion..._

The truth isn’t one she can afford to give, but Anya will detect a lie so Jaina chooses a separate truth instead.

“Because I miss her.”

At that, Anya’s snarl subsides into a firm press of lips.

“Do you really?” She looks Jaina over. Whatever she’s searching for, Jaina prays she finds it. “She missed you too.”

The elf takes great care to emphasize the past tense and it stings, a deep well of pain that she doesn’t bother to mask. If sincerity might sway her, there’s no use in hiding it.

“I promise you I’m only here to talk. Move, Anya. You know she wants me here, and this won’t come to blows.”

Please, let it not come to blows.

“You should hope not, for your sake.”

Anya watches her an agonizing moment more, long enough for Jaina’s fingers to begin digging into her thigh, then steps aside to watch her pass.

The open hostility grates at her edges, but it also helps, if only to set the tone. This won’t be a heartfelt reunion, but the part of her that might have clung to that hope was smothered a long time ago.

-

Jaina finds her on the bridge, alone. Looking out the viewport at the fleet aligned across from her, hands held at parade rest in a posture so familiar she has to blink back the burning behind her eyes.

Sylvanas lets her get closer before turning slowly, drawing her ornate hilt with a frighteningly sure hand. The blade is still purple, there’s that much, but crackling. Out of tune with itself, breaking the illusion that this could be any day in the past.

When they used to talk on this very bridge. When Sylvanas would coax her offworld with an impish smile and the promise of sights the library alone couldn’t give her.

Neither of them are smiling now.

“How very brazen of the Republic to send _you!_ ” Her mocking laugh holds a frantic note, though her blazing eyes remain steely. “What an honor, Master Proudmoore! How long did you dither before agreeing to bring them my head?”

Jaina breathes steadily against the accusation, countering Sylvanas’ fury with her own anchored composure. It’s still so good to see her; thinner than before, wary, but _here_.

“I’m not here to hurt you, Sylvanas. I want to _help_ you.”

“You would join me?” Sylvanas swallows heavily, assessing her with keen, wild interest.

“Not in this. Not _like_ this.”

Hunger and consternation both recede, burned away by new rage as Jaina takes another measured step.

“Then why are you _here?_ ”

“To ask you to stand down.” Jaina breathes in. Out.

At first, Sylvanas meets her words with silence. Then she begins to laugh again, frighteningly mirthless, slowly at first before rising into a shriek. A tunnel of sound and force that whistles over Jaina’s shoulder, startling her to a halt; her entire head rings with it.

 _That’s nothing like the light side, what did she learn, who_ taught–?

Jaina forces the cold dread down, the ice around her heart that wants to keep her in place. Sylvanas wasn’t aiming at her, just delivering a warning.

She starts forward again, unable to quiet her deafening caution. _Rabid_ , Alleria said, but she isn’t, she wouldn’t–

“You came here to seek my surrender? Are you mad?” Sylvanas smiles without warmth, a warning display of teeth. “Did they send you as well because they truly think I would back down, or is your precious Republic willing to sacrifice you like an inferior chess piece?”

Sacrifice? It must be hypothetical, she wouldn’t...she _wouldn’t_. Would she?

In. Out.

“I’m not here on the Republic’s behalf. I came here for you.”

For a split second, desperate longing tears across Sylvanas' face. There and gone, replaced by that hard mask. But it _is_ a mask, plainly visible now after that flash of what lies beneath.

She almost curses the proximity that let her see, because she’ll never know if Arthas could have been saved or if it was always too late, but if she lets Sylvanas slip through her fingers now she’ll carry that frightened look the way she carries Stratholme.

“You won’t join me,” Sylvanas hisses, “won’t fight me. Did you delay me simply to make your foolish request? How like a _Jedi_ ,” her lips curl around the word, “to do nothing.”

In. Out. But it’s hard. Sylvanas has always had an edge, but it’s never been _cruel_.

Jaina completes her approach in spite of it, standing a safe distance away as she joins the elf by the window.

“I said I didn’t want to hurt you, but I will fight you if you make me. To keep you from making a terrible mistake.”

“A mistake, hm? And what would that be?” Sylvanas begins pacing, movements tight with agitation. “Refusing to back down from the damnable Republic, who did _nothing_ while my planet burned? Refusing to let them stop me from hunting Menethil down and making him pay? Letting him get away _again_ , after _everything he’s done!?_ ”

 _As you did_ goes unspoken, hanging in the space between them.

Sylvanas is so angry it’s filling her up and splitting her apart, bleeding through her seams. What can Jaina do against so much hatred?

In. A swallow that sticks in her throat. Out.

“If you defy the Republic here, in this way, you’ll be starting a war. You might face Arthas first, but countless lives will be lost in the end. Is that–” Her voice breaks, damn her weakness. She’s terrified to know the answer, but she makes herself ask in the end. It’s what she came to find out, even if that answer breaks her. “Is that what you want?”

Sylvanas’ ears shift back harshly, and the memory of the last time Jaina touched them, a delicate stroke that day in her quarters before everything fell apart, constricts around her pounding heart.

“It need not _be_ a war, but they insist on keeping me from him. Now, when I almost _have_ him! And are you so sure they would win?” She paces more slowly now, stalking around the idea. “I could mold it, reforge it into something _useful_. A weapon to finally point at the Empire, as it ought to have been all along.”

Tides and stars help her, if Sylvanas pursues that course she’ll never be able to bring her back. Not even if Jaina made fugitives of them both; there wouldn’t be anything left to save. Her calm facade crumbles under the familiar weight of her fear.

 _She’s a coward so she runs but not fast enough, lungs burning from the ash in her throat and filling the air, her fault her fault her fault_ _–_

Just outside the bridge, she can sense others. A group, seething with distrust, and she would wager near anything that Anya’s among them.

It’s going to be just like before, years apart but no different; she’ll look around and Sylvanas will be surrounded by people Jaina thought she knew and when she reaches for her there’ll be nothing, a void, she can’t not _again_ –

 _There is no emotion, there is peace_ –

No. No, that lie failed them both. Jaina grinds her teeth together, drawing strength she doesn’t feel into her voice. If she has to fight them all, she will. Sylvanas is the only person on this ship who poses any threat to her.

“You’re fighting him without regard for civilians! The towns you’ve clashed in are devastated, and the damage from dogfights is worse. How long before it’s deliberate?”

“I would _never_ –” The words catch in the elf’s throat, at her thrumming pulse; she’s so wildly affronted she can’t force out more than that.

“You can’t know that. How much have you changed already? Vereesa came back in tears, and what about the others? Anya? Liadrin?”

Sylvanas’ lips thin with each name, whitening visibly even against the washed-out shade of her skin.

“You’re going to drag them all with you. Do you care?”

 _Please care. You have to care_. Jaina reaches for her with the Force again; is again rebuffed by whirling ferocity as Sylvanas reveals the sharp points of her fangs.

She can sense her but she can’t _feel_ her, it’s never been like this and for all of the resolve that got her to this point she doesn’t know how much more she can take.

“ _Vereesa_ planned to have me killed. If tears are all my dear sister suffered, you should consider me _merciful_. And Liadrin...was too weak to stand with me in the end. The rest, I can keep in line.”

“She didn’t, I promise she didn’t. None of us thought the Republic would...” She cuts herself off when Sylvanas bares her teeth again, switching to something safer. “She’s worried about you, she just wants you back.”

Jaina tries once more to show her, let her feel the truth of it. This time, the storm of pain that pushes her back stings more than a slap on the wrist, like a line sliced across her skin.

“Then she should have come with me.”

It’s too difficult to tell if the hint of melancholy is real, or wishful thinking. And it isn’t worth pushing now, not when what’s paramount is...

“How would you have handled the Republic’s representative?”

Sylvanas scoffs, but allows the subject change with clear relief.

“Let them speak their worthless piece, then let them go. Some may clamor for blood, but they’ll have an abundance when we meet Menethil. I’m no monster.”

Jaina wonders if she believes the denial; Anya seemed zealously certain. Her next exhale is pathetically shaky.

“That’s what _he_ said. Before he gave the order to kill everyone in Stratholme.”

Sylvanas _roars_ , closing the distance between them in a heartbeat and snarling up at Jaina in furious defiance, lightsaber arcing in a swing that stops just shy of Jaina’s shoulder.

“How dare you imply I am _anything_ like him!” Her face bleeds impossibly paler, making her eyes glow like embers.

She’s never seen the elf like this. Arthas was nightmarishly calm, _proud_ , but Sylvanas is teetering on the edge of some kind of sundering.

“You’re leading your own people against a force you’re willing to make greater and greater sacrifices to defeat!” Jaina swallows, eyes darting to the hum of the lightsaber next to her. “And you – you’re pointing your blade at me, Sylvanas. _Me_.”

One end of that blade dips next to Jaina’s shoulder, Sylvanas staring as if she wasn’t entirely aware of holding it. She lowers it further, but keeps it lit at her side. This close the sizzle promises violence, and again Jaina’s shaking hands bump against her own hilt before she shoves them to safer territory.

If it gets closer, Jaina can push her away. To the other end of the bridge, if need be. And then...

Sylvanas is quicker, but Jaina’s stronger in the Force. She always has been. If she can keep Sylvanas at a distance, she’ll win. But the _cost_.

To her immense relief, Sylvanas continues to talk instead.

“Consider it a precaution. You’re powerful enough to challenge me, we both know it. Challenge _Menethil,_ even with his vessel feeding him such foul strength, yet you rest on your heels like the insipid lot of them.”

Jaina can no longer disguise how wildly her heart crashes against her ribs. Her breath comes in staggered bouts, but she gets the words out.

“I’m not resting now.”

A considering pause, while Sylvanas’ searing eyes rove over her. It’s a struggle to meet that gaze when the color drags memories of smoke and screams to the surface, but she does.

Even though she can picture the exact trajectory the elf’s body will make if she hurls it to the floor, somehow, she does.

“...No.” Sylvanas taps her fingers in an idle display along the hilt. “So what _are_ you doing. You say you want to help me? _How._ ”

For a long moment she’s nearly staggered by the relief that she can still avoid her worst fear. But _only_ nearly, because this is the opening she’s waited for.

Alleria thinks she’ll try to bring Sylvanas back to Dalaran, but Jaina considered and discarded the idea almost simultaneously. It would never work.

Even without interference from the Council, even if she recuperated in the most idyllic spot the planet has to offer, Sylvanas will never be satisfied while Arthas lives.

And she thinks, now, neither can she.

So no, not back to the Jedi. There’s only one desperate gamble left for the both of them.

“Call off your fleet, and I’ll fight him with you. You said yourself I was strong enough to stop him, before. But not with an army. Not if we need a war to do it."

Sylvanas’ hand creaks around the hilt of her weapon, so viciously it shakes. For a heartbreaking second Jaina isn’t sure what she’ll do.

In the end it seems Sylvanas isn’t sure either; the twin blades wink out but her grip remains agonizingly tight.

“ _You–?_ ” It’s cracked, incredulous. “When I would have given nearly _anything_ to have you with us towards the end – when with you in my arsenal we would have destroyed him!”

Stars, Jaina would give the same if she could do it over.

“Or I might have made it worse. But I think now...that you’re right. I should have gone with you. I was afraid, and I regret it more than anything.”

Sylvanas must know the weight of those words, of that _anything._ Jaina steps forward, close enough that Sylvanas could ignite the fight looming between them with a flick of her wrist.

“I’m here now. Will you accept my help?”

“They’re hypocrites, Jaina!” It’s rough, imploring, seething anger enhanced by her natural charisma. Jaina feels it like fire, blazing around Sylvanas in tendrils.

And even so, she nods. “They are. I know.”

For a moment, Sylvanas falters. Another crack in the mask, before she repairs it with a scowl.

“Then why are you standing in my way!? You would ask me to risk everything, _everything_ for this fool’s errand. How can you _possibly_ have the gall?”

 _Please._ Please _listen to me._ _If I will ever,_ ever _be enough in a way that matters, let it be this time_.

“Because I don’t want to lose you like this. Please, we can stop him. I can help you stop him. But not like this. It doesn’t have to be like this.”

“How else could it possibly be,” the elf sneers. But she’s hesitating now, looking at Jaina with something like hope. “This is the _only_ choice.”

“I don’t believe that.”

She dares to reach out again. This time, she feels the _painfearlongingrage_ like a current, one she weathers until Sylvanas reaches back. Just a brush, almost involuntary. Instinctive.

 _There you are_. Jaina nearly sobs.

“I don’t believe that,” she says again. “Give the order to stand down, Sylvanas. Please.”

Sylvanas shakes her head, for the moment at least more bewildered than angry as Jaina meets the fire of her eyes without flinching.

“Is your grand plan to wade through his soldiers until their numbers whittle us down? It couldn’t be done with one _hundred_ , and I won’t repeat that...” Her jaw tightens again. “That disaster.”

“Arthas is dramatic” – _like you_ , she’ll never say – “and we can use that. He won’t pass up a chance to gloat. If we asked for a meeting I’m sure he’d accept. He’ll want an audience, but that’s one room. We can manage one room.”

The elf’s ears cock, curious despite the tension still running through her like electricity.

“It... _could_ work,” she allows, finally returning her lightsaber to her belt. “If your skills haven’t rusted. If everything goes right. And even then, you likely...” Her lips tick downwards, dismayed for all that she tries to cloak it. “You won’t survive it. His headless army will crush us like a rampaging beast, and some new fool will take up his mantle.”

If Jaina allows herself time to consider the implication that Sylvanas still cares for her, they’ll lose time they don’t have. She keeps to strategy, but it’s hard. So hard, when she remembers a hand in her hair and the gentle press of lips in a library years ago.

“What if we had backup? While Arthas is distracted with us, someone else could infiltrate and make sure his ship won’t survive either.”

“From who?” Sylvanas laughs again, hoarse and hopeless. “Anyone else who stepped foot on his ship would not survive; I have no one left powerful enough to hang back and guarantee us an escape. If I brought the numbers to make up the difference he would sense them, distraction or no.”

It’s an echo of the Sylvanas she knows, finally. Logical instead of reactive.

Jaina only had dizzy moments to think of a solution on her way here. It could never be Alleria; even if she might agree, Sylvanas would recoil from the idea. Vereesa’s gifted, but not enough. No, if there’s anyone left who sympathizes, with the capability to do something about it, it’s...

“Liadrin. Not with us, he wouldn’t allow it. But as an escape route? We would have a chance.”

“ _Liadrin?_ ” The elf smiles bitterly at Jaina’s offering, equal parts derisive and something more melancholy. “She’s washed her hands of it.”

“I don’t think she has. Someone sent me a message informing me about what was happening here, and they said she was with them. She asked me to help.”

Sylvanas hums, mouth softening into something less severe.

“...Did she.”

There’s a silence between them, while Sylvanas stares at nothing while she thinks and Jaina prays. Finally, she speaks again, fire flaring briefly.

“The Republic–” She waves an arm at the ships hovering, waiting for the order that would plunge them into a second simultaneous Galactic war.

“Will believe what I tell them, which is that there’s been an unfortunate delay in the talks due to extenuating circumstances. They can have their representative back, if they must. By the time they notice one shuttle depart, it will be too late to stop us and jeopardize their position as the moral high ground.”

Sylvanas flicks an ear at the acid laced through the words, and maybe that anger Jaina isn’t shying away from anymore is what gets her to consider it for nearly a full minute this time, cold calculations flashing behind her eyes.

The time for concealing her feelings is long past, so Jaina lets Sylvanas feel it all. Pours it into her, a current she’s had to hold back since Sylvanas severed them from each other months ago. Her fear, her loneliness, her grief. Her love, still.

Sylvanas drinks it in and draws a deep, shuddering breath.

“He has to _die_ , Jaina.”

It’s both an order and a plea. One Jaina wouldn’t deny if she wanted to, even if they both know she can’t promise it and mean it, not with the odds stacked so far against them.

“He will.”

Sylvanas looks once more out the viewport at the Republic fleet, so close to her own. Jaina can feel how hungrily she wants it, for a moment. But in the end, her shoulders drop.

“Very well. You win, as per usual. Perhaps the Republic _should_ have sent you to negotiate after all.”

“I came here for you,” she says, again. And, trying to keep herself from slumping despite how exhaustively relieved she is, “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Whether you’ve helped remains to be seen, but I...” Sylvanas hesitates, brows furrowing.

The thin line of her lips adopts a guilty slant, but she never finishes whatever admission might have been forthcoming. For hours afterward, Jaina will agonize over what she might have said.

“Well. Let us see if this mad plan of yours bears fruit. Then, and only then, will I inform my army. I have much to explain, and little time with which to do it.”

There are so many variables. Whether Jaina was right about Liadrin’s willingness to aid them even now, whether Arthas will resist the bait dangled in front of him. Whether their combined strength will be enough to end him, finally. But for the first time in months, Jaina feels something like real hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it unrealistic that two to four space idiots could hope to could take on Arthas alone? Absolutely, but KotOR lets you face Malak with just a cat and a grandpa if you want to so that’s that on that. Thanks for reading!


End file.
